LITTLE  FRENCH  MASTERPIECES 


TllEOlIlILK    CiAUilER 
From  a  copper  print 


Masterpieces  of 
Literature 

Theophile  Gautier 

Translated  by 

George  Burnham   Ives 

With  an  Introduction  by 

Fredcric-Cesar   De  Sumichrast 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Cbc  Ikiitchcrbochcr   iprcr5 
1907 


Copyright,  1903 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Zbe  ftnlcfjcibocfccr  press,  IRcw  Uorft 


2Z5^? 

^i^  E 

l^o-i 

Contents 

fACB 

rHtoPHlLEGAUTlER. 

ix 

Tales  : 

The  Fleece  of  Gold 

3 

Arria  Marcella 

.   105 

The  Dead  Leman     . 

.    17s 

The  Nest  of  Nightingales 

.   247 

Poems  : 

Love  at  Sea   .... 

.       26^ 

ARS  VlCTRlX      .... 

.     265 

The  Cloud      .... 

.     268 

The  Poet  and  the  Crowd 

.     270 

The  Portal    .... 

.     272 

The  Caravan  .... 

.     280 

The  Marsh      .... 

.     281 

Earth  and  the  Seasons  . 

.     284 

The  Yellow  Stains 

.     285 

The  Chlmera  .... 

.    288 

[t1 


Introduction 


tvii] 


Th6ophile    Gautier 
(1811-1872) 

IN  the  happy  youth  of  Romanticism,  Gautier, 
like  many  another  enthusiast,  madly  wor- 
shipped those  painters  in  whom  the  gift  of 
colour  oft  outweighed  the  sense  of  form. 
He  was  an  adorer  of  the  most  glowing  pal- 
ettes, and  the  Venetians  on  the  one  hand  and 
Rubens  on  the  other  won  his  constant  praise. 
It  so  happened  that  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre 
was  well  provided  with  masterpieces  of  the 
one  and  the  other  school,  and  there  it  was 
that  Gautier  made  his  first  acquaintance  with 
the  beauty  and  splendour  of  colour  which,  it 
must  be  owned,  was  sadly  lacking  in  the 
works  of  the  school  of  David  and  his  suc- 
cessors. 

Then,  though  he  was  later  on  to  become 
one    of   the    most    persistent    globe-trotters 

[ix] 


Introduction 


that  France  has  ever  turned  out,  he  had  not 
begun  to  travel  when  he  felt  the  fascination 
of  Rubens.  That  charm  he  has  described 
time  and  again  in  his  various  articles  and 
books;  it  held  him  fast;  it  compelled  him  to  a 
quest  as  important  in  his  eyes,  at  that  time,  as 
that  of  Jason  or  Sir  Galahad.  So  he  started 
for  Belgium  in  the  belief  that  it  was  a  land 
filled  to  overflowing  with  splendid  creatures, 
golden-haired,  blue-eyed,  and  voluptuously 
formed.  "The  notion,"'  he  says  in  his  ac- 
count of  the  trip,  "came  into  my  mind  in  the 
Louvre  Museum,  as  1  was  walking  through 
the  Rubens  Gallery.  The  sight  of  his  hand- 
some women,  with  full  forms,  of  those  lovely 
and  healthy  bodies,  of  those  mountains  of 
rosy  flesh  with  their  wealth  of  golden  hair, 
filled  me  with  the  desire  to  compare  them 
with  their  living  prototypes.  .  .  I  was 
on  my  way  to  the  North  in  quest  of  the  fair- 
haired  female." 

On  that  trip  the  one  and  only  Rubens  he 
beheld   was   "a   stout   kitchen-wench,   with 


Introduction 


huge  hips  and  amazingly  large  breasts,  who 
was  quietly  sweeping  the  gutter,  never  for  an 
instant  suspecting  that  she  constituted  a  most 
authentic  Rubens.  This  find  aroused  in  me 
hopes  that  proved  subsequently  absolutely 
deceitful." 

It  was  on  this  disappointing  experience  that 
Gautier  built  up  the  pretty  tale  of  The  Fleece 
of  Gold  (1839),  in  which  the  hero  is,  naturally 
enough,  a  painter  in  search  of  just  the  same 
rarity,  and,  like  Gautier,  finds  one  specimen 
only.  To  have  made  the  heroine  of  the  tale  a 
mere  blowsy  kitchen-wench  would  not,  how- 
ever, have  suited  the  author's  temperament. 
Gautier  above  all  things  was  an  artist:  a  lover 
of  the  Beautiful  in  its  most  refined  and  most 
exquisite  form:  quite  capable,  therefore,  of 
idealising  the  somewhat  gross  type  he  had 
come  upon  in  Valenciennes  into  the  ethereal 
and  delicate  maiden  engaged  in  the  congenial 
and  appropriate  occupation  of  making  lace 
instead  of  sweeping  the  gutter.  Beyond  this, 
the  real  object  of  the  story  is  to  afford  oppor- 

[xll 


Introduction 


tunity  for  the  writer  to  talk  upon  art,  and  Ru- 
bens in  particular;  to  develop  his  views  upon 
colour  in  painting,  and  to  indulge  his  taste 
for  the  description  of  a  quaint  old  place  such 
as  Antwerp  had  not  altogether  ceased  to  be. 
The  love  story  is  merely  subordinate  to  this 
principal  purpose,  just  as  at  times  in  Balzac's 
novels  one  wonders  whether  the  conflict  of 
human  passions  and  greed  has  not  been  in- 
troduced merely  as  a  sop  to  a  reader  whom 
the  prolonged  descriptions  of  things  might 
otherwise  repel. 

The  human  element,  indeed,  in  Gautier's 
tales  is  never  very  masterful.  It  is  apparently 
indispensable  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  public, 
and  writing  for  that  unsatisfactory  public, 
Gautier  yields  the  point,  but  his  heart  is  less 
in  that  part  of  the  work  than  in  the  one  which 
gives  him  scope  for  the  exposition  of  his  most 
cherished  beliefs,  and  especially  of  his  dia- 
tribes against  civilisation  and  the  unspeakable 
bourgeois,  whom  he  abominated  as  heartily 
as  did  Flaubert.     He  consequently  introduces 

[xii] 


Introduction 


some  other  element  of  interest:  the  search  for 
what  does  not  exist,  or  exists  only  in  rare 
cases,  as  in  The  Fleece  of  Gold;  the  mysterious 
and  fanciful,  as  in  The  Dead  Leman  (1836); 
the  profound  delight  of  music  and  its  strange 
consequences,  as  in  The  Nest  of  Nightingales 
(1833),  or  picturesqueness,  in  some  form  or 
other,  as  in  Militoua,  The  Quartette,  Fortiinio, 
and  many  another  tale  and  novel. 

Nor  is  Arria  Marcella  (1852),  the  second 
story  in  this  collection,  any  exception  to  the 
rule.  At  first  glance  it  may  appear  to  be  a  love 
tale,  pure  and  simple,  but  it  quickly  becomes 
plain  that  the  real  delight  Gautier  takes  in  his 
subject  is  the  evocation  of  a  past  that  strikes 
him  as  far  superior  as  an  embodiment  of 
Beauty  to  the  utterly  commonplace  civilisation 
of  the  nineteenth  century  in  which,  he  might 
almost  say,  it  was  his  misfortune,  as  it  was 
Celestin  Nanteuil's,  to  be  condemned  to  live. 

Besides,  it  was  the  fashion,  in  those  Roman- 
ticist times,  to  indulge  in  evocations  of  the 
past.     The  fashion  had  been  set  by  Chateau- 

[xiii] 


Introduction 


briand  in  his  Martyrs,  which  inspired  Au- 
gustin  Thierry  to  become  an  historian  and  to 
delve  into  the  archives  of  France.  Flaubert, 
ere  long,  though  a  realist  in  the  more  import- 
ant part  of  his  work,  followed  the  same  path 
and  gave  to  the  public  Salammbo  and  Herod- 
ias.  Gautier,  therefore,  was  merely  pleasing 
the  readers  of  his  works  and  obeying  a  wide- 
spread impulse  when  he  composed  Arria 
Marcella  and  The  Romance  of  a  Mummy, 
recalling  Pompeii  in  the  one  and  ancient 
Egypt  in  the  other. 

There  was,  however,  still  another  cause: 
the  influence  of  Hoffmann,  the  author  of  fan- 
tastic tales,  exceedingly  popular  in  those  days 
and  by  no  means  forgotten  even  now.  Gautier 
studied  Hoffmann  to  some  purpose,  and 
appreciated  the  skillful  manner  in  which  the 
German  writer  produced  the  impression  of 
the  strange  and  the  mysterious  by  the  use 
of  absolutely  legitimate  means,  "  Hoffmann's 
use  of  the  marvellous,"  he  says  in  an  article 
upon  the   Tales,  "is  not  quite  analogous  to 

[xiv] 


Introduction 


the  use  of  it  in  fairy  tales;  he  always  keeps  in 
touch  with  the  world  of  reality,  and  rarely 
does  one  come  across  a  palace  of  carbuncles 
with  diamond  turrets  in  his  works,  while  he 
makes  no  use  whatever  of  the  wands  and 
talismans  of  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights. 
The  supernatural  elements  to  which  he  com- 
monly has  recourse  are  occult  sympathy  and 
antipathy,  curious  forms  of  mania,  visions, 
magnetism,  and  the  mysterious  and  malignant 
influence  of  a  vaguely  indicated  principle  of 
evil.  It  is  the  positive  and  plausible  side  of 
the  fantastic;  and  in  truth  Hoffmann's  tales 
should  be  called  tales  of  caprice  or  fancy  rather 
than  fantastic  tales." 

it  is  plainly  Hoffmann's  method  that  Gautier 
has  adopted  in  the  composition  of  Arria  Mar- 
cella,  and  of  The  Nest  of  Nightingales,  as  also 
in  The  Dead  Leman.  The  reader  is  puzzled 
to  know  whether  the  adventures  of  Octavian, 
the  young  priest,  and  the  maidens  twain  are 
real  or  fanciful;  whether  the  two  former 
dreamed  dreams  or  actually  experienced  the 

[XV] 


Introduction 


astounding  delights,  at  once  bewildering  and 
hideous,  which  the  novelist  relates  so  seri- 
ously. This  is  where  the  story-teller's  art 
plays  its  part  to  perfection. 

The  Nest  of  Nightingales,  nevertheless, 
should  not  be  classed  \\ith  the  other  two 
tales  of  myster)'  or  fancy.  It  is  more  an 
idealisation  of  music;  an  attempt  to  symbol- 
ise the  genius  of  that  art  and  the  effect  upon 
its  devotees.  It  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
tales  Gautier  ever  wrote,  and  has  ever  re- 
mained deservedly  popular.  It  exhibits  all  his 
grace,  all  his  lightness  of  touch,  all  his  deep 
sense  of  Beauty. 

For,  with  him,  it  is  always  to  Beauty, 
ideal,  abstract  Beauty,  that  one  returns.  Beauty 
was  the  one  cult  of  his  life;  the  deity  to  which 
he  was  never  for  an  instant  unfaithful.  He 
believed  in  it;  he  strove  after  it;  he  endeav- 
oured to  make  men  feel  it;  he  was  roused  to 
wrath  by  the  incapacity  of  the  greater  number 
of  his  readers  to  conceive  even  what  it  really 
is,  and  many  of  his  exaggerations  in  the  Ro- 

[rvi] 


Introduction 


manticist  line  are  due  simply  to  the  irritation 
aroused  in  him  by  the  dullness  and  slow- 
wittedness  of  the  profauum  vulgus,  whom  he 
despised  as  cordially  as  did  Horace,  and  whom 
he  detested  even  more  than  did  the  Roman 
singer. 

In  his  verse,  more  especially,  did  he  strive 
to  attain  that  perfection  of  form  which  is  the 
outer  and  visible  symbol  of  the  deeper,  hidden 
glory  that,  living  within  his  poet's  heart,  sang 
to  him  its  melodious  hymn.  Hence  it  is  that 
his  verse  is  well-nigh  untranslatable  and  that 
an  approach  to  its  wondrous  exquisiteness 
alone  can  be  made.  At  a  time  when  the 
Romanticist  doctrine  of  fullest  liberty  in  art 
had  logically  entailed  neglect  of  form,  when 
loose  riming  and  careless  turns  had  become 
almost  the  rule  among  the  less  well-endowed 
poets,  Gautier  stood  up  for  the  principle 
that  the  matter  itself  is  not  sufficient  unless 
it  be  clothed  in  the  most  perfect  form  of  which 
it  is  susceptible.  This  became  the  burden 
of  his  teaching;  and  the  lines  he  wrote,  no 

•  (xvU] 


Introduction 


matter  upon  what  subject,  were  intended 
to  illustrate  this  truth.  It  led  to  the  doctrine 
of  art  for  art's  sake;  and  that,  in  its  turn, 
induced  many  a  false  conclusion,  but  not  in 
Gautier.  If  the  matter  he  selected  did  not 
always  rank  high,  there  never  was,  at  least, 
anything  gross  in  his  verse — even  Albertus, 
though  undoubtedly  sensual,  cannot  be  called 
gross.  And  invariably  the  form  was  superb, 
the  language  choice,  the  melody  sure,  the 
rhythm  admirable,  the  rime  of  the  best. 

His  marvellous  command  of  language,  his 
astonishingly  rich  vocabulary,  and,  in  addition, 
his  deep  sense  of  colour  and  harmony,  aided 
him  in  turning  out  the  volume  known  as 
Enamels  and  Cameos,  in  which  he  amassed 
gems  of  verse.  He  was  above  all  other 
writers  of  his  day  the  one  who  most  fully 
comprehended  colour  and  was  best  able  to 
communicate  the  sensation  of  it  by  the  use  of 
words.  For  him,  as  I  have  said  elsewhere, 
"words  were  not  mere  aggregations  of 
letters   or  syllables,    having   each   and   all  a 

[  xvili  ] 


Introduction 


definite  meaning  attached  to  them  and  noth- 
ing more.  They  were  not  simply  a  means, 
when  assembled,  of  communicating  ideas. 
They  had  qualities  and  properties  of  their 
own  —  intimately,  essentially  their  own  — 
which  gave  them  a  value  wholly  apart  from 
any  usefulness  they  might  possess  as  replacing 
the  primitive  language  of  signs.  They  were 
full  of  colour,  they  were  colour;  they  were  full 
of  music,  they  were  music's  self;  they  were 
sculpture  and  architecture;  they  were  metal; 
and  they  were  stuffs  of  richest  loom — silk 
and  satin,  gauze  and  lawn,  velvet  and 
brocade;  they  were  gems  and  stones  of  purest 
ray  serene;  they  blazed  with  internal  fires; 
they  were  refulgent  with  internal  glow;  they 
burned  with  dull  fame  and  shone  with  scin- 
tillation resplendent.  No  precious  metal,  no 
pearl  of  finest  orient  but  was  to  be  found 
among  them.  Every  shade  and  hue  of 
colour,  every  sound  and  note  of  music  was 
given  out  by  them." 

Hence  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  give  in 

(xixj 


Introduction 


any  other  tongue  an  adequate  idea  of  Gautier's 
verse,  since  so  mucii  of  its  beauty  depends  not 
upon  the  matter  of  which  he  treats,  but  upon 
the  form  he  has  given  it.  And  it  is  precisely  this 
form  which  escapes  the  translator,  or  allows 
itself  to  be  partially  reproduced  only.  Yet  not 
to  include  in  a  volume  of  selections  from 
Gautier's  varied  work  some  examples  of  his 
versification  would  be  to  leave  the  volume 
incomplete,  and  the  reader  might  well  com- 
plain because  Gautier  the  poet  was  unduly 
neglected  in  favour  of  Gautier  the  story-teller. 


[xx] 


The   Fleece  of  Gold 


in 


The   Fleece  of  Gold 


I 


TIBURCE  was  really  a  most  extraordinary 
young  man ;  his  oddity  had  the  peculiar 
merit  of  being  unaffected;  he  did  not  lay  it 
aside  on  returning  home,  as  he  did  his  hat  and 
gloves;  he  was  original  between  four  walls, 
without  spectators,  for  himself  alone. 

Do  not  conclude,  I  beg,  that  Tiburce  was 
ridiculous,  that  he  had  one  of  those  aggressive 
manias  which  are  intolerable  to  all  the  world; 
he  did  not  eat  spiders,  he  played  on  no  instru- 
ment, nor  did  he  read  poetry  to  anybody.  He 
was  a  staid,  placid  youth,  talking  little,  listen- 
ing less;  and  his  half-opened  eyes  seemed  to 
be  turned  inward. 

He  passed  his  life  reclining  in  the  corner  of 
a  divan,  supported  on  either  side  by  a  pile  of 
cushions,  worrying  as  little  about  the  affairs 

(3] 


Theophile  Gautier 


of  the  time  as  about  what  was  taking  place  in 
the  moon.  There  were  very  few  substantives 
which  had  any  effect  on  him,  and  no  one  was 
ever  less  susceptible  to  long  words.  He  cared 
absolutely  nothing  for  his  political  rights,  and 
thought  that  the  people  were  still  free  at  the 
wine-shop. 

His  ideas  on  all  subjects  were  very  simple; 
he  preferred  to  do  nothing  rather  than  to  work; 
he  preferred  good  wine  to  cheap  wine  and  a 
beautiful  woman  to  an  ugly  one;  in  natural 
history  he  made  a  classification  than  which 
nothing  could  be  more  succinct:  things  that 
eat,  and  things  that  do  not  eat.  In  brief,  he 
was  absolutely  detached  from  all  human  af- 
fairs, and  was  as  reasonable  as  he  appeared 
mad. 

He  had  not  the  slightest  self-esteem;  he  did 
not  deem  himself  the  pivot  of  creation,  and 
realised  fully  that  the  world  could  turn  with- 
out his  assistance;  he  thought  little  more  of 
himself  than  of  the  rind  of  a  cheese,  or  of  the 
eels  in  vinegar.     In  face  of  eternity  and  the 

[4] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


intinite,  he  had  not  the  courage  to  be  vain; 
having  looked  sometimes  through  the  micro- 
scope and  the  telescope,  he  had  not  an  ex- 
aggerated idea  of  the  importance  of  the  human 
race.  His  height  was  five  feet,  four  inches; 
but  he  said  to  himself  that  the  people  in  the 
sun  might  well  be  eight  hundred  leagues  tall. 

Such  was  our  friend  Tiburce. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  to  think  from  all  this 
that  Tiburce  was  devoid  of  passions.  Beneath 
the  ashes  of  that  placid  exterior  smouldered 
more  than  one  burning  brand.  However,  no 
one  knew  of  any  regular  mistress  of  his,  and 
he  displayed  little  gallantry  towards  women. 
Like  almost  all  the  young  men  of  to-day, 
without  being  precisely  a  poet  or  a  painter,  he 
had  read  many  novels  and  seen  many  pic- 
tures; lazy  as  he  was,  he  preferred  to  live  on 
the  faith  of  other  people;  he  loved  with  the 
poet's  love,  he  looked  with  the  eyes  of  the 
artist,  and  he  was  familiar  with  more  poets 
than  faces;  reality  was  repugnant  to  him,  and 
by  dint  of  living  in  books  and  paintings,  he 

1-] 


Thdophile  Gautier 


had  reached  the  point  where  nature  no  longer 
rang  true. 

The  Madonnas  of  Raphael,  the  courtesans 
of  Titian,  caused  the  most  celebrated  beauties 
to  seem  ugly  to  him;  Petrarch's  Laura,  Dante's 
Beatrice,  Byron's  Haidee,  Andre  Chenier's 
Camille,  threw  completely  into  the  shade  the 
women  in  hats,  gowns,  and  shoulder-capes 
whose  lover  he  might  have  been.  And  yet 
he  did  not  demand  an  ideal  with  white  wings 
and  a  halo  about  her  head;  but  his  studies  in 
antique  statuary,  the  Italian  schools,  his  fam- 
iliarity with  the  masterpieces  of  art,  and  his 
reading  of  the  poets  had  given  him  an  ex- 
quisitely refined  taste  in  the  matter  of  form, 
and  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to 
love  the  noblest  mind  on  earth,  unless  it  had 
the  shoulders  of  the  Venus  of  Milo.  So  it 
was  that  Tiburce  was  in  love  with  no  one. 

His  devotion  to  abstract  beauty  was  mani- 
fested by  the  great  number  of  statuettes, 
plaster  casts,  drawings  and  engravings  with 
which  his  room  and  its  walls  were  crowded, 

[6] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


so  that  the  ordinary  bourgeois  would  have 
considered  it  rather  an  impossible  abode;  for 
he  had  no  furniture  save  the  divan  mentioned 
above,  and  several  cushions  of  different  colours 
scattered  over  the  carpet.  Having  no  secrets, 
he  could  easily  do  without  a  secretary,  and 
the  incommodity  of  commodes  was  to  him 
an  established  fact. 

Tiburce  rarely  went  into  society,  not  from 
shyness,  but  from  indifference;  he  welcomed 
his  friends  cordially,  and  never  returned  their 
visits.  Was  Tiburce  happy?  No;  but  he 
was  not  unhappy;  he  would  have  liked, 
however,  to  dress  in  red.  Superficial  persons 
accused  him  of  insensibility,  and  kept  women 
said  that  he  had  no  heart;  but  in  reality  his 
was  a  heart  of  gold,  and  his  search  for  physi- 
cal beauty  betrayed  to  observant  eyes  a  pain- 
ful disillusionment  in  the  world  of  moral 
beauty.  In  default  of  sweetness  of  perfume, 
he  sought  grace  in  the  vessel  containing  it; 
he  did  not  complain,  he  indulged  in  no  ele- 
gies, he  did  not  wear  ruffles   en  pleiireuse; 


Theophile  Gautier 


but  one  could  see  that  he  had  suffered,  that 
he  had  been  deceived,  and  that  he  proposed 
not  to  love  again  except  with  his  eyes  open. 
As  dissimulation  of  the  body  is  much  more 
difficult  than  dissimulation  of  the  mind,  he 
set  much  store  by  material  perfection;  but 
alas!  a  lovely  body  is  as  rare  as  a  lovely  soul. 
Moreover,  Tiburce,  depraved  by  the  reflec- 
tions of  novel-writers,  living  in  the  charming, 
imaginary  society  created  by  poets,  with  his 
eyes  full  of  the  masterpieces  of  statuary  and 
painting,  had  a  lordly  and  scornful  taste;  and 
that  which  he  took  for  love  was  simply  the 
admiration  of  an  artist.  He  found  faults  of 
drawing  in  his  mistress;  although  he  did  not 
suspect  it,  woman  was  to  him  a  model,  no- 
thing more. 

One  day,  having  smoked  his  hookah,  hav- 
ing gazed  at  Correggio's  threefold  Leda  in 
its  filleted  frame,  having  turned  Pradine's 
latest  statuette  about  in  every  direction,  hav- 
ing taken  his  left  foot  in  his  right  hand  and 
his  right  foot  in   his  left   hand,   and  having 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


placed  his  heels  on  the  edge  of  the  mantel, 
Tiburce  was  forced  to  admit  to  himself  that 
he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  means  of 
diversion,  that  he  knew  not  which  way  to 
turn,  and  that  the  gray  spiders  of  ennui  were 
crawling  down  the  walls  of  his  room,  all 
dusty  with  drowsiness. 

He  asked  the  time,  and  was  told  that  it 
was  a  quarter  to  one,  which  seemed  to  him 
decisive  and  unanswerable.  He  bade  his 
servant  dress  him  and  went  out  to  walk  the 
streets;  as  he  walked  he  reflected  that  his 
heart  was  empty,  and  he  felt  the  need  of 
"  making  a  passion,"  as  they  say  in  Parisian 
slang. 

This  laudable  resolution  formed,  he  pro- 
pounded the  following  questions  to  himself: 
Shall  I  love  a  Spaniard  with  an  amber  com- 
plexion, frowning  eyebrows,  and  jet-black 
hair  ?  Or  an  Italian  with  classic  features,  and 
orange-tinted  eyelids  encircling  a  glance  of 
tlame  ?  or  a  slim-waisted  Frenchwoman,  with 
a  nose  a  la  Roxelane  and  a  doll's  foot  ?   or 

(91 


Theophile  Gautier 


a  red  Jewess  with  a  sky-blue  skin  and  green 
eyes  ?  or  a  negress,  black  as  nigiit,  and  gleam- 
ing like  new  bronze  ?  Shall  I  have  a  fair  or 
a  dark  passion  ?    Terrible  perplexity. 

As  he  plodded  along,  head  down,  ponder- 
ing this  question,  he  ran  against  something 
hard,  which  caused  him  to  jump  back  with 
a  blood-curdling  oath.  That  something  was 
a  painter  friend  of  his;  together  they  entered 
the  Museum.  The  painter,  an  enthusiastic 
admirer  of  Rubens,  paused  by  preference 
before  the  canvases  of  the  Dutch  Michel- 
angelo, whom  he  extolled  with  a  most 
contagious  frenzy  of  admiration.  Tiburce, 
surfeited  with  the  Greek  outline,  the  Roman 
contour,  the  tawny  tones  of  the  Italian  mas- 
ters, took  delight  in  the  plump  forms,  the 
satiny  flesh,  the  ruddy  faces,  as  blooming 
as  bouquets  of  flowers,  the  luxuriant  health 
that  the  Antwerpian  artist  sends  bounding 
through  the  veins  of  those  faces  of  his,  with 
their  network  of  blue  and  scarlet.  His  eye 
caressed  with  sensuous  pleasure  those  lovely 

(lOJ 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


pearl-white  shoulders  and  those  siren-like  hips 
drowned  in  waves  of  golden  hair  and  marine 
pearls.  Tiburce,  who  had  an  extraordinary 
faculty  of  assimilation,  and  who  understood 
equally  well  the  most  contrasted  types,  was 
at  that  moment  as  Flemish  as  if  he  had  been 
born  in  the  polders,  and  had  never  lost  sight 
of  Lillo  fort  and  the  steeples  of  Antwerp. 

"It  is  decided,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
left  the  gallery,  "  1  will  love  a  Fleming." 

As  Tiburce  was  the  most  logical  person  in  the 
world,  he  placed  before  himself  this  irrefut- 
able argument,  namely,  that  Flemish  women 
must  be  more  numerous  in  Flanders  than  else- 
where, and  that  it  was  important  for  him  to 
go  to  Belgium  at  once  —  to  hunt  the  blonde. 
This  Jason  of  a  new  type,  in  quest  of  another 
tleece  of  gold,  took  the  Brussels  diligence  that 
same  evening,  with  the  mad  haste  of  a  bank- 
rupt weary  of  intercourse  with  men  and  feel- 
ing a  craving  to  leave  France,  that  classic 
home  of  the  fine  arts,  of  lovely  women,  and 
of  sheriffs'  officers. 


Theophile  Gautier 


After  a  few  hours,  Tiburce,  not  without 
a  thrill  of  joy,  saw  the  Belgian  lion  appear 
on  the  signs  of  inns,  beneath  a  poodle  in  nan- 
keen breeches,  accompanied  by  the  inevitable 
yerkoopt  men  dranken.  On  the  following 
evening  he  walked  on  Magdalena  Strass 
in  Brussels,  climbed  the  mountain  with  its 
kitchen  gardens,  admired  the  stained-glass 
windows  of  St.  Gudule's  and  the  belfry  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  and  scrutinised,  not  without 
alarm,  all  the  women  who  passed. 

He  met  an  incalculable  number  of  negresses, 
mulattresses,  quadroons,  half-breeds,  griffs, 
yellow  women,  copper -coloured  women, 
green  women,  women  of  the  colour  of  a 
boot-flap,  but  not  a  single  blonde;  if  it  had 
been  a  little  warmer,  he  might  have  imagined 
himself  at  Seville;  nothing  was  lacking,  not 
even  the  black  mantilla. 

As  he  returned  to  his  hotel  on  Rue  d'Or, 
however,  he  saw  a  girl  who  was  only  a  dark 
chestnut,  but  she  was  ugly.  The  next  day 
he  saw,  near  the  resideni  of  Laeken,  an  Eng- 

[12] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


lishwoman  with  carroty-red  hair  and  light- 
green  shoes;  but  she  was  as  thin  as  a  frog 
that  has  been  shut  up  in  a  bottle  for  six 
months,  to  act  as  a  barometer,  which  ren- 
dered her  inapt  to  realise  an  ideal  after  the 
style  of  Rubens. 

Finding  that  Brussels  was  peopled  solely 
by  Andalusians  with  burnished  breasts, — 
which  fact  is  readily  explained  by  the  Spanish 
domination  that  held  the  Low  Countries  in 
subjection  so  long  —  Tiburce  determined  to 
go  to  Antwerp,  thinking,  with  some  appear- 
ance of  reason,  that  the  types  familiar  to 
Rubens  and  so  constantly  reproduced  on  his 
canvases  were  likely  to  be  frequently  met 
with  in  his  beloved  native  city. 

He  betook  himself,  therefore,  to  the  station 
of  the  railway  that  runs  from  Brussels  to  Ant- 
werp. The  steam  horse  had  already  eaten 
his  ration  of  coal;  he  was  snorting  impa- 
tiently and  blowing  from  his  inflamed  nos- 
trils, with  a  strident  noise,  dense  puffs  of  white 
smoke,    mingled    with    showers   of   sparks. 

(13J 


Theophile  Gautier 


Tiburce  seated  himself  in  his  compartment, 
in  company  with  five  Walloons,  who  sat  as 
motionless  in  their  places  as  canons  in  the 
chapter-house,  and  the  train  started.  The 
pace  was  moderate  at  first;  they  moved  little 
faster  than  one  rides  in  a  post-chaise  at  ten 
francs  the  relay;  but  soon  the  beast  became 
excited  and  was  seized  with  a  most  extra- 
ordinary rage  for  rapidity.  The  poplars  be- 
side the  track  fled  to  right  and  left  like  a  routed 
army;  the  landscape  became  blurred  and  was 
blotted  out  in  a  gray  vapour;  the  cole  wort  and 
the  peony  studded  the  black  strips  of  ground 
with  indistinct  stars  of  gold  and  azure.  Here 
and  there  a  slender  spire  appeared  amid  the 
billowing  clouds  and  disappeared  instantly, 
like  the  mast  of  a  ship  on  a  stormy  sea.  Tiny 
light-pink  or  apple-green  wine-shops  made  a 
fleeting  impression  on  the  eye  at  the  rear  of 
their  gardens,  beneath  their  garlands  of  vines 
or  hops;  here  and  there  pools  of  water,  en- 
circled by  dark  mud,  dazzled  the  eye  like  the 
mirror  in  a  trap  for  larks.      Meanwhile  the 

114J 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


iron  monster  belched  forth  with  an  ever-in- 
creasing roar  its  breath  of  boiling  steam;  it 
puffed  like  an  asthmatic  whale;  a  fiery  sweat 
bathed  its  brazen  sides,  it  seemed  to  com- 
plain of  the  insensate  swiftness  of  its  pace 
and  to  pray  for  mercy  to  its  begrimed  postil- 
lions, who  spurred  it  on  incessantly  with 
shovelfuls  of  coal.  There  came  a  noise  of 
bumping  carriages  and  rattling  chains:  they 
had  arrived. 

Tiburce  ran  to  right  and  left  without  fixed 
purpose,  like  a  rabbit  suddenly  released  from 
its  cage.  He  took  the  first  street  that  he  saw, 
then  a  second,  then  a  third,  and  plunged 
bravely  into  the  heart  of  the  ancient  city, 
seeking  the  blonde  with  an  ardour  worthy  of 
the  knights-errant  of  old. 

He  saw  a  vast  number  of  houses  painted 
mouse-gray,  canary-yellow,  sea-green,  pale 
lilac;  with  roofs  like  stairways,  moulded 
gables,  doors  with  vermiculated  bosses,  with 
short  stout  pillars,  decorated  with  quadrangu- 
lar bracelets  like  those  at  the   Luxembourg, 

[15] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


leaded  Renaissance  windows,  gargoyles, 
carved  beams,  and  a  thousand  curious  archi- 
tectural details,  which  would  have  enchanted 
him  on  any  other  occasion;  he  barely  glanced 
at  the  illuminated  Madonnas,  at  the  Christs 
bearing  lanterns  at  the  street  corners,  at  the 
saints  of  wax  or  wood  with  their  gewgaws 
and  tinsel  —  all  those  Catholic  emblems  that 
have  so  strange  a  look  to  an  inhabitant  of  one 
of  our  Voltairean  cities.  Another  thought 
absorbed  him :  his  eyes  sought,  through  the 
dark,  smoke-begrimed  windows,  some  fair- 
haired  feminine  apparition,  a  tranquil  and 
kindly  Brabantine  face,  with  the  ruddy  fresh- 
ness of  the  peach,  and  smiling  within  its  halo 
of  golden  hair.  He  saw  only  old  women 
making  lace,  reading  prayer-books,  or  squat- 
ting in  corners  and  watching  for  the  passing 
of  an  infrequent  pedestrian,  reflected  by  the 
glass  of  their  espions,  or  by  the  ball  of  polished 
steel  hanging  in  the  doorway. 

The  streets  were  deserted,  and  more  silent 
than  those  of  Venice;  no  sound  was  to  be 

[10] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


heard  save  that  oi  ihc  chimes  of  various 
churches  striking  the  hours  in  every  possible 
key,  for  at  least  twenty  minutes.  The  pave- 
ments, surrounded  by  a  fringe  of  weeds,  like 
those  in  the  courtyards  of  unoccupied  houses, 
told  of  the  infrequency  and  small  number  of 
the  passers-by.  Skimming  the  ground  like 
stealthy  swallows,  a  few  women,  wrapped 
discreetly  in  the  folds  of  their  dark  hoods, 
glided  noiselessly  along  the  houses,  some- 
times followed  by  a  small  boy  carrying  their 
dog.  Tiburce  quickened  his  pace,  in  order  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  features  buried  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  hood,  and  saw  there  pale 
faces,  with  compressed  lips,  eyes  surrounded 
by  dark  circles,  prudent  chins,  delicate  and 
circumspect  noses  —  the  genuine  type  of  the 
pious  Roman  or  the  Spanish  duenna;  his 
burning  glance  was  shattered  against  dead 
glances,  the  glassy  stare  of  a  dead  fish. 

From  square  to  square,  from  street  to  street, 
Tiburce  arrived  at  last  at  the  Quay  of  the 
Scheldt  by  the  Harbour  Gate.     The  magnificent 

.  L17J 


Thdophile  Gautier 


spectacle  extorted  a  cry  of  surprise  from  him ; 
an  endless  number  of  masts,  yards,  and  cord- 
age resembled  a  forest  on  the  river,  stripped 
of  leaves  and  reduced  to  the  state  of  a  mere 
skeleton.  The  bowsprits  and  latteen  yards 
rested  familiarly  on  the  parapet  of  the  wharf, 
as  a  horse  rests  his  head  on  the  neck  of  his 
carriage-mate.  There  were  Dutch  orques, 
round-sterned,  with  their  red  sails;  sharp, 
black  American  brigs,  with  cordage  as  fine  as 
silk  thread;  salmon-coloured  Norwegian  koffs, 
emitting  a  penetrating  odour  of  planed  fir; 
barges,  fishermen,  Breton  salt-vessels,  English 
coalers,  ships  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
An  indescribable  odour  of  sour  herring,  to- 
bacco, rancid  suet,  melted  tar,  heightened  by 
the  acrid  smells  of  the  ships  from  Batavia, 
loaded  with  pepper,  cinnamon,  ginger,  and 
cochineal,  floated  about  in  the  air  in  dense 
puffs,  like  the  smoke  from  an  enormous  per- 
fume-pan lighted  in  honour  of  commerce. 

Tiburce,  hoping  to  find  the  true  Flemish 
type  among   the  lower  classes,   entered   the 

[18] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


taverns  and  gin-shops.  He  drank  lambick, 
white  beer  of  Louvain,  ale,  porter,  and  whis- 
key, desiring  to  improve  the  opportunity  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  northern  Bac- 
chus. He  also  smoked  cigars  of  several  brands, 
ate  salmon,  sauerkraut,  yellow  potatoes,  rare 
roast-beef,  and  partook  of  all  the  delights  of 
the  country. 

While  he  was  dining,  German  women, 
chubby-faced,  swarthy  as  gypsies,  with  short 
skirts  and  Alsatian  caps,  came  to  his  table 
and  squalled  unmelodiously  some  dismal  bal- 
lad, accompanying  themselves  on  the  violin 
and  other  unpleasant  instruments.  Blonde 
Germany,  as  if  to  mock  at  Tiburce,  had  be- 
smeared itself  with  the  deepest  shade  of  sun- 
burn; he  tossed  them  angrily  a  handful  of 
small  coins,  which  procured  him  the  favour  of 
another  ballad  of  gratitude,  shriller  and  more 
uncivilised  than  the  first. 

In  the  evening  he  went  to  the  music-halls  to 
see  the  sailors  dance  with  their  mistresses; 
all  of  the  latter  had  beautiful,  glossy-black  hair 

[19] 


Theophile  Gautier 


that  shone  like  a  crow's  wing.  A  very  pretty 
Creole  seated  herself  beside  him  and  famil- 
iarly touched  her  lips  to  his  glass,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  country,  and  tried  to  enter 
into  conversation  with  him  in  excellent  Span- 
ish, for  she  was  from  Havana;  she  had  such 
velvety-black  eyes,  a  pale  complexion,  so 
warm  and  golden,  such  a  small  foot,  and  such 
a  slender  figure,  that  Tiburce,  exasperated,  sent 
her  to  all  the  devils,  to  the  great  surprise  of  the 
poor  creature,  who  was  little  accustomed  to 
such  a  greeting. 

Utterly  insensible  to  the  dark  perfections  of 
the  dancers,  Tiburce  withdrew  to  the  Arms  of 
Brabant  Hotel.  He  undressed  in  a  dissatis- 
fied frame  of  mind,  and  wrapping  himself  as 
well  as  he  could  in  the  openwork  napkins 
which  take  the  place  of  sheets  in  Flanders,  he 
soon  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

He  had  the  loveliest  dreams  imaginable. 

The  nymphs  and  allegorical  figures  of  the 
Medici  Gallery,  in  the  most  enticing  d^sha- 
bilU,  paid  him  a  nocturnal  visit ;  they  gazed 

[20] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


fondly  at  him  with  their  great  blue  eyes,  and 
smiled  at  him  in  the  most  friendly  way,  with 
their  lips  blooming  like  red  tlowers  amid  the 
milky  whiteness  of  their  round,  plump  faces. 
One  of  them,  the  Nereid  in  the  picture  called 
The  Queen's  Voyage,  carried  familiarity  so  far 
as  to  pass  her  pretty  taper  lingers,  tinged 
with  carmine,  through  the  hair  of  the  love- 
lorn sleeper.  Drapery  of  flowered  brocade 
cleverly  concealed  the  deformity  of  her  scaly 
legs,  ending  in  a  forked  tail;  her  fair  hair  was 
adorned  with  seaweed  and  coral,  as  befits  a 
daughter  of  the  sea;  she  was  adorable  in  that 
guise.  Groups  of  chubby  children,  as  red  as 
roses,  swam  about  in  a  luminous  atmosphere, 
holding  aloft  wreaths  of  flowers  of  insupport- 
able brilliancy,  and  drew  down  from  heaven  a 
perfumed  rain.  At  a  sign  from  the  Nereid, 
the  nymphs  stood  in  two  rows  and  tied  to- 
gether the  ends  of  their  long  auburn  hair,  in 
such  wise  as  to  form  a  sort  of  hammock  of 
gold  filigree  for  the  fortunate  Tiburce  and  his 
finny  mistress;  they  took  their  places  therein. 


Theophile*  Gautier 


and  the  nymphs  swung  them  to  and  fro, 
moving  their  heads  slightly  with  a  rhythm  of 
infinite  sweetness. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  noise,  the 
golden  threads  broke,  and  Tiburce  fell  to  the 
ground.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  naught 
save  a  horrible  bronze-coloured  face,  which 
fastened  upon  him  two  great  enamel  eyes, 
only  the  whites  of  which  could  be  seen. 

"Your  breakfast,  mein  Herr,"  said  an  old 
Hottentot  negress,  a  servant  of  the  hotel, 
placing  on  a  small  table  a  salver  laden  with 
dishes  and  silverware. 

"Damnation!  I  ought  to  have  gone  to 
Africa  to  look  for  blondes!  "  grumbled  Tiburce, 
as  he  attacked  his  beefsteak  in  desperation. 


II 


TIBURCE,  having  duly  satisfied  his  appe- 
tite, left  the  Arms  of  Brabant  with  the 
laudable  and  conscientious  purpose  of  con- 
tinuing the  search  for  his  ideal.     He  was  no 

[22] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


more  fortunate  than  on  the  previous  day;  dark- 
skinned  ironies,  emerging  from  every  street, 
cast  sly  and  mocking  glances  at  him;  India, 
Africa,  America  passed  before  him  in  specimens 
more  or  less  copper-coloured;  one  would  have 
said  that  the  venerable  city,  advised  of  his 
purpose,  concealed  in  a  spirit  of  mockery,  in 
the  depths  of  its  most  impenetrable  back  yards 
and  behind  its  dingiest  windows,  all  those  of 
its  daughters  who  might  have  recalled,  vividly 
or  remotely,  the  paintings  of  Jordaens  or 
Rubens;  stingy  with  its  gold,  it  was  lavish 
with  its  ebony. 

Enraged  by  this  sort  of  mute  ridicule, 
Tiburce  visited  the  museums  and  galleries,  to 
escape  it.  The  Flemish  Olympus  shone  once 
more  before  his  eyes.  Once  more  cascades 
of  hair  glistened  in  tiny  reddish  waves,  with 
a  quiver  of  gold  and  radiance;  the  shoulders 
of  the  allegories,  refurbishing  their  silvery 
whiteness,  glowed  more  vividly  than  ever; 
the  blue  of  the  eyes  became  lighter,  the  ruddy 
cheeks  bloomed  like  bunches  of  carnations;  a 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


pink  vapour  infused  warmth  into  the  bluish 
pallor  of  the  knees,  elbows,  and  fingers  of  all 
those  fair-haired  goddesses;  soft  gleams  of 
changing  light,  ruddy  reflections  played  over 
the  plump,  rounded  flesh;  the  pigeon-breast 
draperies  swelled  before  the  breath  of  an  in- 
visible wind,  and  began  to  flutter  about  in  the 
azure  vapour;  the  fresh,  plump  Netherlandish 
poesy  was  revealed  in  all  its  entirety  to  our 
enthusiastic  traveller. 

But  these  beauties  on  canvas  were  not 
enough  for  him.  He  had  come  thither  in 
search  of  real,  living  types.  He  had  fed 
long  enough  on  written  and  painted  poetry, 
and  he  had  discovered  that  intercourse  with 
abstractions  was  somewhat  unsubstantial. 
Doubtless  it  would  have  been  much  simpler 
to  stay  in  Paris  and  fall  in  love  with  a  pretty 
woman,  or  even  with  an  ugly  one,  like  every- 
body else;  but  Tiburce  did  not  understand 
nature  and  was  able  to  read  it  only  in  transla- 
tions.    He   grasped   admirably  all  the   types 

realised  in  the  works  of  the  masters,  but  he 

[^1 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


would  not  have  noticed  them  of  his  own 
motion  if  he  had  met  them  on  the  street  or  in 
society;  in  a  word,  if  he  had  been  a  painter, 
he  would  have  made  vignettes  based  on  the 
verses  of  poets;  if  he  had  been  a  poet,  he 
would  have  written  verses  based  on  the  pict- 
ures of  painters.  Art  had  taken  possession 
of  him  when  he  was  too  young,  and  had  cor- 
rupted him  and  prejudiced  him.  Such  in- 
stances are  more  common  than  is  supposed  in 
our  over-refined  civilisation,  where  we  come 
in  contact  with  the  works  of  man  more  often 
than  with  those  of  nature. 

For  a  moment  Tiburce  had  an  idea  of 
compromising  with  himself,  and  made  this 
cowardly  and  ill-sounding  remark:  "Chest- 
nut hair  is  a  very  pretty  colour."  He  even 
went  so  far,  the  sycophant,  the  villain,  the 
man  of  little  faith,  as  to  admit  to  himself  that 
black  eyes  were  very  bright  and  very  attract- 
ive, it  may  be  said,  to  excuse  him,  that  he 
had  scoured  in  every  direction,  and  without  the 
slightest  result,  a  city  which  everything  justified 

[25] 


Theophile  Gautier 


him  in  believing  to  be  radically  blonde.     A 
little  discouragement  was  quite  pardonable. 

At  the  moment  that  he  uttered  this  blas- 
phemy under  his  breath,  a  lovely  blue  glance, 
wrapped  in  a  mantilla,  flashed  before  him 
and  disappeared  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp  around 
the  corner  of  IVleir  Square. 

Tiburce  quickened  his  pace,  but  he  saw 
nothing  more;  the  street  was  deserted  from 
end  to  end.  Evidently  the  flying  vision  had 
entered  one  of  the  neighbouring  houses, 
or  had  vanished  in  some  unknown  alley. 
Tiburce,  bitterly  disappointed,  after  glancing 
at  the  well,  with  the  iron  scrollwork  forged  by 
Quintin  Metzys,  the  painter-locksmith,  took  it 
into  his  head  to  visit  the  cathedral,  which 
he  found  daubed  from  top  to  bottom  with  a 
horrible  canary-yellow.  Luckily  the  wooden 
pulpit,  carved  by  Verbruggen,  with  its  de- 
coration of  foliage  alive  with  birds,  squirrels, 
and  turkeys  displaying  their  plumage,  and  all 
the  zoological  equipage  which  surrounded 
Adam  and  Eve  in  the  terrestrial  paradise,  re- 

[26] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


deemed  that  general  insipidity  by  the  delicacy 
of  its  angles  and  its  nicety  of  detail.  Luckily, 
the  blazonry  of  the  noble  families,  and  the 
pictures  of  Otto  Venius,  of  Rubens,  and  of 
Van  Dyck,  partly  concealed  that  hateful  colour, 
so  dear  to  the  middle  classes  and  to  the  clergy. 

A  number  of  Beguins  at  prayer  were  scat- 
tered about  on  the  pavement  of  the  church ;  but 
the  fervour  of  their  piety  caused  them  to  bend 
their  faces  so  low  over  their  red-edged  prayer- 
books,  that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  their 
features.  Moreover,  the  sanctity  of  the  spot 
and  the  venerable  aspect  of  their  costumes 
prevented  Tiburce  from  feeling  inclined  to 
carry  his  investigation  farther. 

Five  or  six  Englishmen,  breathless  after  as- 
cending and  descending  the  four  hundred  and 
seventy  stairs  of  the  steeple,  to  which  the 
dove's-nests  with  which  it  is  always  capped 
give  the  aspect  of  an  Alpine  peak,  were  ex- 
amining the  pictures,  and,  trusting  only  in 
part  to  their  guide's  loquacious  learning,  were 
hunting  up  in  their  guide-books  the  names  of 


Theophile  Gautier 


the  masters,  for  fear  of  admiring  one  thing  for 
another;  and  they  repeated  in  front  of  every 
canvas,  with  imperturbable  stolidity:  "It  is 
a  very  fine  exhibition."  These  Englishmen 
had  squarely-cut  faces,  and  the  enormous 
distance  between  their  noses  and  their  chins 
demonstrated  the  purity  of  the  breed.  As  for 
the  English  lady  who  was  with  them,  she 
was  the  same  one  whom  Tiburce  had  pre- 
viously seen  at  the  resident  of  Laeken;  she 
wore  the  same  green  boots  and  the  same  red 
hair.  Tiburce,  despairing  of  finding  Flemish 
blondes,  was  almost  on  the  point  of  darting  a 
killing  glance  at  her;  but  the  vaudeville  coup- 
lets aimed  at  perfidious  Albion  came  to  his 
mind  most  opportunely. 

In  honour  of  these  visitors,  so  manifestly 
Britannic,  who  could  not  move  without  a 
jingling  of  guineas,  the  beadle  opened  the  shut- 
ters which,  during  three-fourths  of  the  year, 
concealed  the  two  wonderful  paintings  of  the 
Crucifixion  '  and  the  Descent  from  the  Cross. 

'  The  painting  entitled  Le  Coup  de  Z.a«c^.— [Ed.] 
[23] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


The  Crucifixion  is  a  work  that  stands  by 
itself,  and  Rubens,  when  he  painted  it,  was 
thinking  of  Michelangelo.  The  drawing  is 
rough,  savage,  impetuous,  like  those  of  the 
Roman  school;  all  the  muscles  stand  out  at 
once,  all  the  bones  and  sinews  are  visible, 
nerves  of  steel  are  surrounded  by  flesh  like 
granite.  Here  is  no  trace  of  the  joyous,  ruddy 
tones  with  which  the  Antwerpian  artist  non- 
chalantly sprinkles  his  innumerable  produc- 
tions; it  is  the  Italian  bistre  in  its  tawniest 
intensity;  executioners,  colossi  shaped  like 
elephants,  have  tigers'  muzzles  and  attitudes 
of  bestial  ferocity;  even  the  Christ  Himself, 
included  in  this  exaggeration,  wears  rather 
the  aspect  of  a  Milo  of  Crotona,  nailed  to  a 
wooden  horse  by  rival  athletes,  than  of  a 
God  voluntarily  sacrificing  Himself  for  the 
redemption  of  humanity.  There  is  nothing 
Flemish  in  the  picture  save  the  great  Sny- 
ders  dog  barking  in  a  corner. 

When  the  shutters  of  the  Descent  from 
the  Cross  were  thrown  open,   Tiburce  was 

[2«] 


Theophile  Gautier 


dazzled  and  seized  with  vertigo,  as  if  lie  had 
looked  into  an  abyss  of  blinding  light;  the 
sublime  head  of  the  Magdalen  blazed  triumph- 
antly in  an  ocean  of  gold,  and  seemed  to 
illuminate  with  the  beams  from  its  eyes  the 
pale,  gray  atmosphere  that  filtered  through 
the  narrow  Gothic  windows.  Everything 
about  him  faded  away;  there  was  an  absolute 
void;  the  square-jawed  Englishman,  the  red- 
haired  Englishwoman,  the  violet-robed  beadle 
— he  saw  them  no  more. 

The  sight  of  that  face  was  to  Tiburce  a 
revelation  from  on  high;  scales  fell  from  his 
eyes,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his 
secret  dream,  with  his  unavowed  hope;  the 
intangible  image  which  he  had  pursued  with 
all  the  ardour  of  an  amorous  imagination, 
and  of  which  he  had  been  able  to  espy  only 
the  profile  or  the  ravishing  fold  of  a  dress;  the 
capricious  and  untamed  chimera,  always  ready 
to  unfold  its  restless  wings,  was  there  before 
him,  fleeing  no  more,  motionless  in  the  splen- 
dour of  its  beauty.  The  great  master  had  copied 

[30] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


in  his  own  heart  the  anticipated  and  longed-for 
mistress;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  himself  had 
painted  the  picture;  the  hand  of  genius  had 
drawn  unerringly  and  with  broad  strokes  of 
the  brush  what  was  only  confusedly  sketched 
in  his  mind,  and  had  garbed  in  gorgeous 
colours  his  undefined  fancy  for  the  unknown. 
He  recognised  that  face,  and  yet  he  had  never 
seen  it. 

He  stood  there,  mute,  absorbed,  as  insensi- 
ble as  a  man  in  a  cataleptic  fit,  not  moving  an 
eyelid  and  plunging  his  eyes  into  the  bound- 
less glance  of  the  great  penitent. 

A  foot  of  the  Christ,  white  with  a  bloodless 
whiteness,  as  pure  and  lifeless  as  a  consecrated 
wafer,  hovered  with  all  the  inert  listlessness 
of  death  over  the  saint's  white  shoulder,  an 
ivory  footstool  placed  there  by  the  sublime 
artist  to  enable  the  divine  corpse  to  descend 
from  the  tree  of  redemption.  Tiburce  felt 
jealous  of  the  Christ.  For  such  a  blessed 
privilege  he  would  gladly  have  endured  the 
Passion.      The    bluish    pallor    of    the    flesh 

[81] 


Theophile  Gautier 


hardly  reassured  him.  He  was  deeply 
wounded,  too,  because  the  Magdalen  did 
not  turn  towards  him  her  melting,  glistening 
eye,  wherein  the  light  bestowed  its  diamonds 
and  grief  its  pearls.  The  dolorous  and  im- 
passioned persistence  of  that  glance,  which 
wrapped  the  beloved  body  in  a  winding- 
sheet  of  love,  seemed  to  him  humiliating,  and 
eminently  unjust  to  him,  Tiburce.  He  would 
have  rejoiced  if  the  most  imperceptible  gesture 
had  given  him  to  understand  that  she  was 
touched  by  his  love;  he  had  already  forgotten 
that  he  was  standing  before  a  painting,  so  quick 
is  passion  to  attribute  its  own  ardour  even  to 
objects  incapable  of  feeling  it.  Pygmalion 
must  have  been  astonished,  as  if  it  were  a  most 
extraordinary  thing,  that  this  statue  did  not 
return  caress  for  caress;  Tiburce  was  no  less 
shocked  by  the  coldness  of  his  painted  sweet- 
heart. 

Kneeling  in  her  robe  of  green  satin,  with  its 
ample  and  swelling  folds,  she  continued  to 
gaze  upon  the  Christ  with  an  expression  of 

133] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


grief-stricken  concupiscence,  like  a  mistress 
who  seeks  to  surfeit  herself  with  the  features 
of  an  adored  face  which  she  is  never  to  see 
again;  her  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders,  a  lum- 
inous fringe;  a  sunbeam,  straying  in  by 
chance,  heightened  the  warm  whiteness  of 
her  linen  and  of  her  arms  of  gilded  marble; 
in  the  wavering  light  her  breast  seemed  to 
swell  and  throb  with  an  appearance  of  life; 
the  tears  in  her  eyes  melted,  and  flowed  like 
human  tears. 

Tiburce  thought  that  she  was  about  to  rise 
and  step  down  from  the  picture. 

Suddenly  there  was  darkness:  the  vision 
vanished. 

The  English  visitors  had  withdrawn,  after 
observing:  "Very  well;  a  pretty  picture"; 
and  the  beadle,  annoyed  by  Tiburce's  pro- 
longed contemplation,  had  closed  the  shutters, 
and  was  demanding  the  usual  fee.  Tiburce 
gave  him  all  that  he  had  in  his  pocket;  lovers 
are  generous  to  duennas;  the  Antwerpian 
beadle    was    the    Magdalen's    duenna,     and 

3  (33] 


Theophile  Gautier 


Tiburce,  already  looking  forward  to  another 
interview,  was  interested  in  obtaining  his 
favourable  consideration. 

The  colossal  St.  Christopher,  and  the  hermit 
carrying  a  lantern,  painted  on  the  exterior  of 
the  shutters,  albeit  very  remarkable  works, 
were  far  from  consoling  Tiburce  for  the  clos- 
ing of  that  dazzling  tabernacle,  whence  the 
genius  of  Rubens  sparkles  like  a  monstrance 
laden  with  precious  stones. 

He  left  the  church,  carrying  in  his  heart 
the  barbed  arrow  of  an  impossible  love;  he 
had  at  last  fallen  in  with  the  passion  that  he 
sought,  but  he  was  punished  where  he  had 
sinned:  he  had  become  too  fond  of  painting, 
he  was  doomed  to  love  a  picture.  Nature, 
neglected  for  art,  revenged  herself  in  bar- 
barous fashion;  the  most  timid  lover,  in  the 
presence  of  the  most  virtuous  of  women, 
always  retains  a  secret  hope  in  a  corner  of 
his  heart;  as  for  Tiburce,  he  was  sure  of  his 
mistress's  resistance  and  he  was  perfectly 
well  aware  that  he  would  never  be  happy; 

[34] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


so  that  his  passion  was  a  genuine  passion, 
a  wild,  insensate  passion,  capable  of  any- 
thing; it  was  especially  remarkable  for  its 
disinterestedness. 

Do  not  make  too  merry  over  Tiburce's  love; 
how  many  men  do  we  see  deeply  enamoured 
of  women  whom  they  have  never  seen  ex- 
cept in  a  box  at  the  theatre,  to  whom  they 
have  never  spoken,  and  even  the  sound  of 
whose  voice  .they  do  not  know!  Are  such 
men  much  more  reasonable  than  our  hero, 
and  are  their  impalpable  idols  to  be  com- 
pared with  the  Magdalen  at  Antwerp  ? 

Tiburce  walked  the  streets  with  a  proud 
and  mysterious  air,  like  a  gallant  returning 
from  a  first  assignation.  The  intensity  of  his 
sensations  surprised  him  agreeably  —  he  who 
had  never  lived  except  in  the  brain  felt  the 
beating  of  his  heart,  it  was  a  novel  sensa- 
tion; and  so  he  abandoned  himself  without 
reserve  to  the  charms  of  that  unfamiliar  im- 
pression; a  real  woman  would  not  have 
touched  him   so   deeply.     An    artificial    man 

[85] 


Theophile  Gautier 


can  be  moved  only  by  an  artificial  thing;  there 
is  a  harmony  between  them;  the  true  would 
create  a  discord.  As  we  have  said,  Tiburce 
had  read  much,  seen  much,  thought  much, 
and  felt  very  little;  his  fancies  were  simply 
brain  fancies;  in  him  passion  rarely  went 
below  the  cravat.  But  this  time  he  was  really 
in  love,  just  like  a  student  of  rhetoric;  the 
dazzling  image  of  the  Magdalen  floated  be- 
fore his  eyes  in  luminous  spots,  as  if  he  had 
been  looking  at  the  sun;  the  slightest  fold, 
the  most  imperceptible  detail  stood  out  clearly 
in  his  memory;  the  picture  was  always  pre- 
sent before  him.  He  tried  in  all  seriousness 
to  devise  some  means  to  impart  life  to  that 
insensible  beauty  and  to  induce  her  to  come 
forth  from  her  frame;  he  thought  of  Pro- 
metheus, who  kindled  the  fire  of  heaven  in 
order  to  give  a  soul  to  his  lifeless  work;  of 
Pygmalion,  who  succeeded  in  finding  a  way 
to  move  and  warm  a  block  of  marble;  he 
had  an  idea  of  plunging  into  the  bottomless 
ocean  of  the  occult  sciences,  in  order  to  dis- 

[36] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


cover  a  charm  sufficiently  powerful  to  give 
life  and  substance  to  that  vain  appearance. 
He  raved,  he  was  mad:  he  was  in  love, 
you  see. 

Have  not  you  yourself,  without  reaching 
that  pitch  of  excitement,  been  invaded  by  a 
feeling  of  indescribable  melancholy  in  a  gallery 
of  old  masters,  while  thinking  of  the  van- 
ished beauties  represented  by  their  pictures  ? 
Would  not  one  be  glad  to  infuse  life  into  all 
those  pale  and  silent  faces  which  seem  to 
muse  sadly  against  the  greenish  ultramarine 
or  the  coal-black  which  forms  the  background  ? 
Those  eyes,  whose  vital  spark  gleams  more 
brightly  beneath  the  veil  of  age,  were  copied 
from  those  of  a  young  princess  or  a  lovely 
courtesan,  of  whom  naught  remains,  not  even 
a  single  grain  of  dust;  those  lips,  half  parted 
in  a  painted  smile,  recall  real  smiles  forever 
fled.  What  a  pity,  in  truth,  that  the  women 
of  Raphael,  of  Correggio,  and  of  Titian  are 
but  impalpable  shades!  And  why  have  not 
the  models,  like  their  portraits,  received  the 

[37] 


Theophile  Gautier 


privilege  of  immortality?  The  harem  of 
the  most  voluptuous  sultan  would  be  a  small 
matter  compared  with  that  which  one  might 
form  with  the  odalisques  of  painting,  and  it 
is  really  to  be  regretted  that  so  much  beauty 
is  lost. 

Tiburce  went  every  day  to  the  cathedral, 
and  lost  himself  in  contemplation  of  his  be- 
loved Magdalen;  and  he  returned  to  the  hotel 
each  evening,  more  in  love,  more  depressed, 
and  more  insane  than  ever.  More  than  one 
noble  heart,  even  without  caring  for  pictures, 
has  known  the  sufferings  of  our  friend,  when 
trying  to  breathe  his  soul  into  some  lifeless 
idol,  who  had  only  the  outward  phantom  of 
life,  and  realised  the  passion  she  inspired  no 
more  than  a  coloured  figure. 

With  the  aid  of  powerful  glasses  our  lover 
scrutinised  his  inamorata  even  in  the  most 
imperceptible  details.  He  admired  the  fine- 
ness of  the  flesh,  the  solidity  and  suppleness 
of  the  colouring,  the  energy  of  the  brush,  the 
vigour  of  the  drawing,  as  another  would  ad- 

[88] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


mire  the  velvety  softness  of  the  skin,  the 
whiteness  and  the  beautiful  colouring  of  a  liv- 
ing mistress.  On  the  pretext  of  examining 
the  work  at  closer  range,  he  obtained  a  ladder 
from  his  friend,  the  beadle,  and,  all  aquiver 
with  love,  he  dared  to  rest  a  presumptuous 
hand  on  the  Magdalen's  shoulder.  He  was 
greatly  surprised  to  feel,  instead  of  the  satin- 
like softness  of  a  woman's  flesh,  a  hard,  rough 
surface  like  a  file,  with  hollows  and  ridges 
everywhere,  due  to  the  impetuosity  of  the 
impulsive  painter's  brush.  This  discovery 
greatly  depressed  Tiburce,  but,  as  soon  as  he 
had  descended  to  the  floor  again,  his  illusion 
returned. 

He  passed  more  than  a  fortnight  thus,  in 
a  state  of  transcendental  enthusiasm,  wildly 
stretching  out  his  arms  to  his  chimera,  im- 
ploring Heaven  to  perform  a  miracle.  In  his 
lucid  moments  he  resigned  himself  to  the 
alternative  of  seeking  throughout  the  city 
some  type  approaching  his  ideal;  but  his 
search  resulted  in  nothing,  for  one  does  not 

[39] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


find  readily  on  streets  and  public  promenades 
such  a  diamond  of  beauty. 

One  evening,  however,  he  met  again,  at 
the  corner  of  Meir  Square,  the  charming  blue 
glance  we  have  previously  mentioned;  this 
time  the  vision  disappeared  less  quickly,  and 
Tiburce  had  time  to  see  a  lovely  face  framed 
by  rich  clusters  of  fair  hair,  and  an  artless 
smile  playing  about  the  freshest  lips  in  the 
world.  She  quickened  her  pace  when  she 
realised  that  she  was  followed,  but  Tiburce, 
keeping  at  a  distance,  saw  her  stop  in  front 
of  a  respectable  old  Flemish  house,  of  poor 
but  decent  aspect.  As  there  was  some  delay 
in  admitting  her,  she  turned  for  an  instant, 
doubtless  in  obedience  to  a  vague  instinct  of 
feminine  coquetry,  to  see  if  the  stranger  had 
been  discouraged  by  the  long  walk  she  had 
compelled  him  to  take.  Tiburce,  as  if  en- 
lightened by  a  sudden  gleam  of  light,  saw  that 
she  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to — the  Mag- 
dalen. 


I40J 


The   Fleece  of  Gold 


III 


THE  house  which  the  slender  figure  had 
entered  had  an  air  of  Flemish  simpli- 
city altogether  patriarchal,  it  was  painted  a 
faded  rose-colour,  with  narrow  white  lines  to 
represent  the  joints  of  the  stones.  The  gable, 
denticulated  like  the  steps  of  a  staircase;  the 
roof  with  its  round  windows  surrounded  by 
scrollwork;  the  impost,  representing,  with 
true  Gothic  artlessness,  the  story  of  Noah  de- 
rided by  his  sons;  the  stork's  nest,  and  the 
pigeons  making  their  toilet  in  the  sun,  made 
it  a  perfect  example  of  its  type;  you  would 
have  said  that  it  was  one  of  those  factories  so 
common  in  the  pictures  of  Van  der  Heyden 
and  of  Teniers. 

A  few  stalks  of  hops  softened  with  their 
plavful  greenery  the  too  severe  and  too 
methodical  aspect  of  the  house  as  a  whole. 
The  lower  windows  were  provided  with 
rounded  bars,  and  over  the  two  lower  panes 

were  squares    of    muslin   embroidered    with 

t-ii] 


Theophile  Gautier 


great  bunches  of  flowers  after  the  Brussels 
fashion;  in  the  space  left  empty  by  the  swell- 
ing of  the  iron  bars  were  china  pots  contain- 
ing a  few  pale  carnations  of  sickly  aspect, 
despite  the  evident  care  the  owner  took  of 
them;  for  their  drooping  heads  were  sup- 
ported by  playing-cards  and  a  complicated 
system  of  tiny  scaffoldings  of  twigs  of  osier. 
Tiburce  observed  this  detail,  which  indicated 
a  chaste  and  restrained  life,  a  whole  poem  of 
youth  and  beauty. 

As,  after  two  hours  of  waiting,  he  had  not 
seen  the  fair  Magdalen  with  the  blue  eyes 
come  forth,  he  sagely  concluded  that  she  must 
live  there;  which  was  true.  All  that  he  had 
left  to  do  was  to  learn  her  name,  her  position 
in  society,  to  become  acquainted  with  her, 
and  to  win  her  love;  mere  trifles,  in  very  truth. 
A  professional  Lovelace  would  not  have  been 
delayed  five  minutes;  but  honest  Tiburce  was 
not  a  Lovelace;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  bold 
in  thought,  but  timid  in  action;  no  one  was 
less  clever  than  he  at  passing  from  the  general 

[42] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


to  the  particular,  and  in  love  affairs  he  had  a 
most  pressing  need  of  a  trustworthy  Pandarus 
to  extol  his  perfections  and  to  arrange  his 
rendezvous.  Once  under  way,  he  did  not 
lack  eloquence;  he  declaimed  the  languorous 
harangue  with  due  self-possession,  and  played 
the  lover  at  least  as  well  as  a  provincial  jeune 
premier;  but,  unlike  Petit-Jean,  the  dog's 
lawyer,  the  part  that  he  was  least  expert  at 
was  the  beginning. 

We  are  bound  to  admit,  therefore,  that 
worthy  Tiburce  swam  in  a  sea  of  uncertainty, 
devising  a  thousand  stratagems  more  in- 
genious than  those  of  Polybius,  to  gain  access 
to  his  divinity.  As  he  found  nothing  suitable, 
he  conceived  the  idea,  like  Don  Cleofas  in  the 
Diable  Boiteux,  of  setting  fire  to  the  house, 
in  order  to  have  an  opportunity  to  rescue  his 
darling  from  the  flames  and  thus  to  prove  to 
her  his  courage  and  his  devotion;  but  he  re- 
flected that  a  fireman,  more  accustomed  than 
he  to  roam  about  on  burning  rafters,  might 
supplant  him;  and,  moreover,  that  that  method 

143J 


Thdophile  Gautier 


of  making  a  pretty  girl's   acquaintance  was 
forbidden  by  the  Code. 

Awaiting  a  better  inspiration,  he  engraved 
very  clearly  on  his  brain  the  location  of  the 
house,  noted  the  name  of  the  street,  and  re- 
turned to  his  hotel,  reasonably  content,  for  he 
had  imagined  that  he  saw  vaguely  outlined 
behind  the  embroidered  muslin  at  the  window 
the  graceful  silhouette  of  the  unknown,  and 
a  tiny  hand  put  aside  a  corner  of  the  trans- 
parent fabric,  doubtless  to  make  sure  of  his 
virtuous  persistence  in  standing  sentry,  with- 
out hope  of  being  relieved,  at  the  corner  of  a 
lonely  street  in  Antwerp.  Was  this  mere 
conceit  on  the  part  of  Tiburce,  and  was  his 
bonne  fortune  one  of  those  common  to  near- 
sighted men,  who  mistake  linen  hanging  in 
the  window  for  the  scarf  of  Juliet  leaning  over 
towards  Romeo,  and  pots  of  flowers  for 
princesses  in  gowns  of  gold  brocade?  How- 
ever that  may  have  been,  he  went  away  in 
high  spirits,  looking  upon  himself  as  one  of 
the  most  triumphant  of  gallants.     The  host- 

(441 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


ess  of  the  Arms  of  Brabant  and  her  black 
maidservant  were  surprised  at  the  airs  of 
Hamiicar  and  of  a  drum-major  which  he  as- 
sumed. He  lighted  his  cigar  in  the  most  de- 
termined fashion,  crossed  his  legs,  and  began 
to  dandle  his  slipper  on  his  toes  with  the 
superb  nonchalance  of  a  mortal  who  utterly 
despises  all  creation,  and  who  is  blest  with 
joys  unknown  to  the  ordinary  run  of  man- 
kind; he  had  at  last  found  the  blonde.  Jason 
was  no  happier  when  he  took  the  marvellous 
fleece  from  the  enchanted  tree. 

Our  hero  was  in  the  best  of  all  possible 
situations:  a  genuine  Havana  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  slippers  on  his  feet,  a  bottle  of  Rhine 
wine  on  his  table,  with  the  newspapers  of 
the  past  week  and  a  pretty  little  pirated  edition 
of  the  poems  of  Alfred  de  Musset. 

He  could  drink  a  glass,  or  even  two,  of 
Tokay,  read  Namoiina,  or  an  account  of  the 
latest  ballet;  there  is  no  reason,  therefore,  why 
we  should  not  leave  him  alone  for  a  few 
moments;    we    have   given   him    enough   to 


Theophile  Gautier 


dispel  his  ennui,  assuming  that  a  lover  can 
ever  suffer  from  ennui.  We  will  return  with- 
out him  —  for  he  is  not  the  sort  of  a  man  to 
open  the  doors  for  us  —  to  the  little  house  on 
Rue  Kipdorp,  and  we  will  act  as  introducers, 
we  will  show  you  what  there  is  behind  the 
embroidered  muslin  of  the  lower  windows; 
for,  as  our  first  piece  of  information,  we  will 
tell  you  that  the  heroine  of  this  tale  lived  on 
the  ground  floor  and  that  her  name  was 
Gretchen;  a  name  which,  albeit  not  so  eu- 
phonious as  Ethelwina,  or  Azalia,  seemed 
sufficiently  sweet  to  German  or  Dutch  ears. 

Enter,  after  carefully  wiping  your  feet,  for 
Flemish  cleanliness  reigns  despotically  here. 
In  Flanders,  people  wash  their  faces  only 
once  a  week,  but  by  way  of  compensation 
the  floors  are  scalded  and  scraped  to  the  quick 
twice  a  day.  The  floor  in  the  hall,  like  those 
in  the  rest  of  the  house,  is  made  of  pine  boards, 
whose  natural  colour  is  retained,  the  long,  pale 
veins  and  the  starlike  knots  being  hidden 
by  no  varnish;  it   is  sprinkled  with   a   light 

[46] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


coating  of  sea-sand,  carefully  sit'lcd,  the  grains 
of  which  hold  the  feet  and  prevent  the  slip- 
ping so  frequent  in  our  salons,  where  one 
skates  rather  than  walks.  Gretchen's  bed- 
room is  at  the  right,  behind  that  door  painted 
a  modest  gray,  whose  copper  knob,  scoured 
with  pumice,  shines  as  if  it  were  of  gold; 
rub  your  feet  once  more  upon  this  mat  of 
rushes;  the  emperor  himself  might  not  enter 
with  muddy  feet. 

Observe  an  instant  this  placid  and  peaceful 
interior;  there  is  nothing  to  attract  the  eye; 
everything  is  calm,  sober,  restrained;  the 
chamber  of  Marguerite  herself  produces  no 
more  virginal  impression;  it  is  the  serenity 
of  innocence  which  presides  over  all  these 
petty  details  so  fliscinatingly  neat. 

The  brown  walls,  with  an  oaken  wains- 
coting waist-high,  have  no  other  ornament 
than  a  Madonna  in  coloured  plaster,  dressed 
in  real  fabrics  like  a  doll,  with  satin  shoes, 
a  wreath  of  rushes,  a  necklace  of  coloured 
glass,  and  two  small  vases  of  artificial  flowers 

[47] 


Theophile   Gautier 


in  front  of  her.  At  the  rear  of  the  room,  in 
the  corner  most  in  the  shadow,  stands  a 
four-posted  bed  of  antique  shape,  with  cur- 
tains of  green  serge  and  valances  with  pinked 
edges  and  a  hem  of  yellow  lace.  By  the 
pillow,  a  figure  of  the  Christ,  the  lower  part 
of  the  cross  forming  a  holy-water  vessel, 
stretches  His  ivory  arms  above  the  chaste 
maiden's  slumbers. 

A  chest  which  glistens  like  a  mirror,  so 
diligently  is  it  rubbed;  a  table  with  twisted 
legs  standing  near  the  window,  and  covered 
with  spools,  skeins  of  silk,  and  all  the  para- 
phernalia of  lacework;  a  huge,  upholstered 
easy-chair,  three  or  four  high-backed  chairs  of 
the  style  of  Louis  XIII.,  such  as  we  see  in  the 
engravings  of  Abraham  Bosse,  composed  the 
furnishing,  almost  puritanical  in  its  simplicity. 

We  must  add,  however,  that  Gretchen, 
innocent  as  she  was,  had  indulged  in  the 
luxury  of  a  Venetian  mirror,  with  bevelled 
edges,  surrounded  by  a  frame  of  ebony  en- 
crusted with  copper.     To  be  sure,  to  sanctify 

[48] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


that    profane    object,  a  twig  of  blessed  box- 
wood was  stuck  in  the  frame. 

Imagine  Gretchen  sitting  in  the  great  up- 
holstered easy-chair,  with  her  feet  upon  a 
stool  embroidered  by  herself,  entangling  and 
disentangling  with  her  fairy  fingers  the  almost 
imperceptible  network  of  a  piece  of  lace  just 
begun ;  her  pretty  head  leaning  over  her  work 
is  lighted  from  below  by  a  thousand  frolic- 
some reflections  which  brighten  with  fresh 
and  vapoury  tints  the  transparent  shadow  in 
which  she  is  bathed;  a  delicate  bloom  of 
youth  softens  the  somewhat  too  Dutch  ruddi- 
ness of  her  cheeks,  whose  freshness  the  half- 
light  cannot  impair;  the  daylight,  admitted 
sparingly  through  the  upper  panes,  touches 
only  the  top  of  her  brow,  and  makes  the 
little  wisps  of  hair  that  rebel  against  the  re- 
straint of  the  comb  gleam  like  golden  tend- 
rils. Cause  a  sudden  ray  of  sunlight  to  play 
upon  the  cornice  and  upon  the  chest,  sprinkle 
dots  of  gold  over  the  rounded  sides  of  the 
pewter  pots,  make  the  Christ  a  little  yellower; 

4  [*yj 


Theophile  Gautier 


retouch  with  a  deeper  shadow  the  stiff,  straight 
folds  of  the  serge  curtains;  darken  the  mod- 
ernised pallor  of  the  window-glass;  stand  old 
Barbara,  armed  with  her  broom,  at  the  end 
of  the  room ;  concentrate  all  the  light  upon 
the  maiden's  head  and  hands,  and  you  will 
have  a  Flemish  painting  of  the  best  period, 
which  Terburg  or  Gaspard  Netscher  would 
not  refuse  to  sign. 

What  a  contrast  between  that  interior,  so 
clean  and  neat  and  so  easily  understood,  and 
the  bedroom  of  a  young  Frenchwoman, 
always  filled  with  clothes,  with  music-paper, 
with  unfinished  water-colours;  where  every 
article  is  out  of  its  place;  where  tumbled 
dresses  hang  on  the  backs  of  chairs;  and 
where  the  household  cat  tears  with  her  claws 
the  novel  carelessly  left  on  the  floor!  How 
clear  and  crystalline  is  the  water  in  which 
that  half-withered  rose  stands!  How  white 
that  linen,  how  clear  and  transparent  that 
glassware!  Not  a  particle  of  dust  in  the  air, 
not  a  rug  out  of  place. 

[50] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


Metzu,  who  painted  in  a  summer-house  situ- 
ated in  the  centre  of  a  lake,  in  order  to  pre- 
serve the  integrity  of  his  colours,  might  have 
worked  without  annoyance  in  Gretchen's  bed- 
room. The  iron  back  of  the  fireplace  shines 
like  a  silver  bas-relief 

At  this  point  a  sudden  apprehension  seizes 
us;  is  she  really  the  heroine  suited  to  our 
hero?  Is  Gretchen  really  Tiburce's  ideal?  is 
not  all  this  very  minute,  very  commonplace, 
very  practical  ?  is  it  not  rather  the  Dutch  than 
the  Flemish  type,  and  do  you  really  believe 
that  Rubens's  models  were  built  like  her? 
Was  it  not  rather  merry  gossips,  highly-col- 
oured, abounding  in  flesh,  of  robust  health, 
and  careless  and  vulgar  manners,  whose  com- 
monplace reality  the  painter's  genius  has  ideal- 
ised ?  The  great  masters  often  play  us  such 
tricks.  Of  an  indifferent  site  they  make  a 
lovely  landscape;  of  an  ugly  maidservant,  a 
Venus;  they  do  not  copy  what  they  see,  but 
what  they  desire. 

And  yet  Gretchen,   although    daintier  and 


Theophile  Gautier 


more  refined,  really  bore  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  the  Magdalen  of  Antwerp  Cathedral, 
and  Tiburce's  imagination  might  well  rest 
upon  her  without  going  astray.  It  would 
have  been  hard  for  him  to  find  a  more  mag- 
nificent body  for  the  phantom  of  his  painted 
mistress. 

You  desire  doubtless,  now  that  you  know 
Gretchen  and  her  bedroom,  the  bird  and  its 
nest,  as  well  as  we  ourselves  do,  to  have  some 
details  concerning  her  life  and  her  social  posi- 
tion. Her  history  was  as  simple  as  possible: 
Gretchen  was  the  daughter  of  small  trades- 
people who  had  been  unfortunate,  and  she 
had  been  an  orphan  for  several  years;  she 
lived  with  Barbara,  a  devoted  old  servant, 
upon  a  small  income,  the  remains  of  her 
father's  property,  and  upon  the  proceeds  of 
her  work;  as  Gretchen  made  her  own  dresses 
and  her  laces,  as  she  was  looked  upon  by  the 
Flemings  as  a  prodigy  of  prudence  and  neat- 
ness, she  was  able,  although  a  simple  work- 
ing-girl, to  dress  with  a  certain  elegance,  and 

[62] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


to  differ  little  from  the  daughters  of  citizens 
of  the  middle  class;  her  linen  was  fine,  her 
caps  were  always  notable  for  their  whiteness; 
her  boots  were  the  best  made  in  the  city;  for 
— we  trust  that  this  detail  will  not  displease 
Tiburce  —  we  must  admit  that  Gretchen  had 
the  foot  of  a  Spanish  countess,  and  shod  her- 
self to  correspond.  She  was  a  well-educated 
girl;  she  knew  how  to  read,  could  write  well, 
knew  all  possible  stitches  in  embroidery,  had 
no  rival  on  earth  in  needlework,  and  did  not 
play  the  piano.  Let  us  add  that  she  had  by 
way  of  compensation  an  admirable  talent  for 
cooking  pear-tarts,  carp  au  bleu,  and  cake;  for 
she  prided  herself  on  her  culinary  skill,  like  all 
good  housekeepers,  and  knew  how  to  prepare 
a  thousand  little  delicacies  after  her  own 
recipes. 

These  details  will  seem  without  doubt  far 
from  aristocratic,  but  our  heroine  is  neither  a 
princess  of  diplomacy,  nor  a  charming  woman 
of  thirty,  nor  a  fashionable  singer;  she  is  a 
simple  working-girl  of  Rue  Kipdorp,  near  the 

1631 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


ramparts,  Antwerp;  but  as,  in  our  eyes,  wo- 
men have  no  real  distinction  save  tiieir  beauty, 
Gretchen  is  the  equal  of  a  duchess  who  is 
entitled  to  sit  in  the  king's  presence,  and 
we  look  upon  her  sixteen  years  as  sixteen 
quarterings  of  nobility. 

What  was  the  state  of  Gretchen's  heart? 
The  state  of  her  heart  was  most  satisfactory ; 
she  had  never  loved  anything  but  coffee-col- 
oured turtle-doves,  goldfish,  and  other  absol- 
utely innocent  small  creatures,  which  could 
not  cause  the  most  savagely  jealous  lover  a 
moment's  anxiety.  Every  Sunday  she  went 
to  hear  high  mass  at  the  Jesuits'  church, 
modestly  wrapped  in  her  hood  and  attended 
by  Barbara  carrying  her  book;  then  she  went 
home  and  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  Bible, 
"in  which  God  the  Father  was  represented 
in  the  costume  of  an  emperor,"  and  of  which 
the  wood-engravings  aroused  her  admiration 
for  the  thousandth  time.  If  the  weather  was 
fine,  she  went  out  to  walk  to  Lillo  fort,  or 
to  the  Head  of  Flanders,   with  a  girl  of  her 

1541 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


own  age,  also  a  laceworker.  During  the 
week  she  seldom  went  out,  except  to  deliver 
her  work;  and  Barbara  undertook  that  duty 
most  of  the  time.  A  girl  of  sixteen  years 
who  has  never  thought  of  love  would  be  an 
improbable  character  in  a  warmer  climate; 
but  the  atmosphere  of  Flanders,  made  heavy 
by  the  sickly  exhalations  from  the  canals, 
contains  very  few  aphrodisiac  molecules;  the 
flowers  are  backward  there,  and  when  they 
come  are  thick  and  pulpy;  their  odours,  laden 
with  moisture,  resemble  the  odours  of  decoc- 
tions of  aromatic  herbs;  the  fruits  are  watery; 
the  earth  and  the  sky,  saturated  with  moist- 
ure, send  back  and  forth  the  vapours  which 
they  cannot  absorb,  and  which  the  sun  tries 
in  vain  to  drink  with  its  pale  lips;  the  women 
who  live  in  this  bath  of  mist  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  being  virtuous,  for,  according  to 
Byron,  that  rascal  of  a  sun  is  a  great  seducer 
and  has  made  more  conquests  than  Don  Juan. 
It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  Gretchen, 
in  such  a   moral  atmosphere,   was  a   perfect 

[56] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


stranger  to  all  ideas  of  love,  even  under  the 
form  of  marriage,  a  legal  and  permissible  form 
if  such  there  be.  She  had  read  no  bad  novels, 
nor  even  any  good  ones;  she  had  not  any 
male  relatives,  cousins  or  second  cousins. 
Lucky  Tiburce !  Moreover,  the  sailors  with 
their  short,  coloured  pipes,  the  captains  of  the 
East-lndiamen,  who  strolled  about  the  city 
during  their  brief  time  on  shore,  and  the  dig- 
nified merchants  who  went  to  the  Bourse, 
revolving  figures  in  the  wrinkles  of  their  fore- 
heads, and  who  cast  their  fleeting  shadows 
into  Gretchen's  sanctum  as  they  walked  by 
the  house,  were  not  at  all  calculated  to  inflame 
the  imagination. 

Let  us  admit,  however,  that,  despite  her 
maidenly  ignorance,  the  lace -worker  had 
remarked  Tiburce  as  a  well-turned  cavalier 
with  regular  features;  she  had  seen  him 
several  times  at  the  cathedral,  in  rapt  con- 
templation before  the  Descent  from  the  Cross, 
and  attributed  his  ecstatic  attitude  to  an  ex- 
cessive  piety   most   edifying   in   so  young  a 

[56] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


man.  As  she  whirled  her  bobbins  about, 
she  thought  of  the  stranger  of  Mcir  Square, 
and  abandoned  herself  to  innocent  reverie. 
One  day  even,  under  the  influence  of  that 
thought,  she  rose,  and  unconscious  of  her 
own  act,  went  to  her  mirror,  which  she  con- 
sulted for  a  long  while;  she  looked  at  herself 
full-faced,  in  profile,  in  all  possible  lights,  and 
discovered  —  what  was  quite  true  —  that  her 
complexion  was  more  silky  than  a  sheet  of 
rice  or  camellia  paper;  that  she  had  blue  eyes 
of  a  marvellous  limpidity,  charming  teeth  in 
a  mouth  as  red  as  a  peach,  and  fair  hair  of 
the  loveliest  shade.  She  noticed  for  the  first 
time  her  youthful  charm  and  her  beauty; 
she  took  the  white  rose  which  stood  in  the 
pretty  glass,  placed  it  in  her  hair,  and  smiled 
to  see  how  that  simple  flower  embellished 
her;  coquetry  was  born  and  love  would  soon 
follow  it. 

But  it  is  a  long  time  since  we  left  Tiburce; 
what  had  he  been  doing  at  the  Arms  of  Bra- 
bant,   while   we   furnished    this   information 

[37] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


concerning  the  lace-worker  ?  He  had  written 
upon  a  very  fine  sheet  of  paper  what  was 
probably  a  declaration  of  love,  unless  it  was  a 
challenge;  for  several  other  sheets,  besmeared 
and  marred  by  erasures,  which  lay  on  the 
floor,  proved  that  it  was  a  document  very 
difficult  to  draw  up,  and  of  great  importance. 
After  finishing  it,  he  took  his  cloak  and  bent 
his  steps  once  more  towards  Rue  Kipdorp. 

Gretchen's  lamp,  a  star  of  peace  and  toil, 
shone  softly  behind  the  glass,  and  the  shadow 
of  the  girl  as  she  leaned  over  her  work  was 
cast  upon  the  transparent  muslin.  Tiburce, 
more  excited  than  a  robber  about  to  turn  the 
key  of  a  treasure-chest,  drew  near  the  window 
with  the  step  of  a  wolf,  passed  his  hand 
through  the  bars,  and  buried  in  the  soft  earth 
of  the  vase  of  carnations  the  corner  of  his 
letter  thrice  folded,  hoping  that  Gretchen 
could  not  fail  to  see  it  when  she  opened  her 
window  in  the  morning  to  water  her  flowers. 
That  done,  he  withdrew  with  a  step  as  light  as 
if  the  soles  of  his  boots  were  covered  with  felt. 

[58] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


IV 


THE  fresh  blue  light  of  the  morning  paled 
the  sickly  yellow  of  the  lanterns,  which 
were  almost  burned  out;  the  Scheldt  steamed 
like  a  sweating  horse,  and  the  daylight  was 
beginning  to  filter  through  the  rents  in 
the  mist,  when  Gretchen's  window  opened. 
Gretchen's  eyes  were  still  swimming  in  lan- 
guor, and  the  mark  left  on  her  delicate  cheek 
by  a  fold  of  the  pillow  showed  that  she  had 
slept  without  moving  in  her  little  virginal 
bed,  that  profound  sleep  of  which  youth  alone 
has  the  secret.  She  was  anxious  to  see  how 
her  dear  carnations  had  passed  the  night,  and 
had  hastily  wrapped  herself  in  the  first  gar- 
ment that  came  to  hand;  that  graceful  and 
modest  dishabilU  became  her  wondrously; 
and  if  the  idea  of  a  goddess  can  be  reconciled 
with  a  little  cap  of  Flanders  linen  embellished 
with  lace,  and  a  dressing-sack  of  white  dimity, 
we  will  venture  to  say  that  she  had  the  aspect 
of  Aurora  opening  the  gates  of  the  East;  this 

159] 


Theophile  Gautier 


comparison  is  perhaps  a  little  too  majestic  for 
a  lace-worker  who  is  about  to  water  a  garden 
contained  in  two  porcelain  pots;  but  surely 
Aurora  was  less  fresh  and  rosy,  especially  the 
Aurora  of  Flanders,  whose  eyes  are  always  a 
little  dull. 

Gretchen,  armed  with  a  large  pitcher,  pre- 
pared to  water  her  carnations,  and  Tiburce's 
ardent  declaration  came  very  near  being 
drowned  beneath  a  moral  deluge  of  cold 
water;  luckily  the  white  paper  caught  Gretch- 
en's  eye;  she  disinterred  the  letter  and  was 
greatly  surprised  when  she  saw  its  contents. 
There  were  only  two  sentences,  one  in  French, 
the  other  in  German;  the  French  sentence 
was  composed  of  two  words,  "  je  t'aime"; 
the  German  of  three,  "  ich  liebe  dich  ";  which 
means  exactly  the  same  thing.  Tiburce  had 
provided  for  the  possibility  that  Gretchen 
would  understand  only  her  mother  tongue; 
he  was,  as  you  see,  a  consummately  prudent 
person. 

Really,  it  was  well  worth  while  to  besmear 

[60] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


more  paper  than  Malherbe  ever  used  to  com- 
pose a  stanza,  and  to  drink,  on  the  pretext 
of  exciting  the  imagination,  a  bottle  of  ex- 
cellent Tokay,  in  order  to  arrive  at  that  in- 
genious and  novel  thought.  But,  despite  its 
apparent  simplicity,  Tiburce's  letter  was  per- 
haps a  masterpiece  of  libertinism,  unless  it 
was  mere  folly,  which  is  possible.  How- 
ever, was  it  not  a  master-stroke  to  let  fall 
thus,  like  a  drop  of  melted  lead,  into  the  midst 
of  that  tranquillity  of  mind  that  single  phrase, 
"1  love  you".?  And  was  not  its  fall  certain 
to  produce,  as  on  the  surface  of  a  lake,  an 
infinite  number  of  radiations  and  concentric 
circles  ? 

In  truth,  what  do  all  the  most  ardent  love- 
letters  contain }  What  remains  of  all  the 
bombast  of  passion  when  one  pricks  it  with 
the  pin  of  reason  ?  All  the  eloquence  of  Saint- 
Preux  reduces  itself  to  a  phrase;  and  Tiburce 
had  really  attained  great  profundity  by  con- 
centrating in  that  brief  sentence  the  flowery 
rhetoric  of  his  first  draughts. 

[01] 


Thdophile  Gautier 


He  did  not  sign  it;  indeed,  what  informa- 
tion would  his  name  have  given  ?  He  was  a 
stranger  in  the  city,  he  did  not  know  Gretch- 
en's  name,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  cared  very 
little  about  it.  The  affair  was  more  romantic, 
more  mysterious  thus;  the  least  fertile  imagina- 
tion might  build  thereupon  twenty  octavo 
volumes  more  or  less  probable.  Was  he  a 
sylph,  a  pure  spirit,  a  love-lorn  angel,  a  hand- 
some officer,  a  banker's  son,  a  young  noble- 
man, a  peer  of  England  with  an  income  of  a 
million,  a  Russian  feudal  lord,  with  a  name 
ending  in  off,  many  roubles,  and  a  multitude 
of  fur  collars  ?  Such  were  the  serious  questions 
which  that  laconically  eloquent  letter  must  in- 
evitably raise.  The  familiar  form  of  address, 
which  is  used  only  to  Divinity,  betrayed  a 
violence  of  passion  which  Tiburce  was  very 
far  from  feeling,  but  which  might  produce  the 
best  effect  upon  the  girl's  mind,  as  exaggera- 
tion always  seems  more  natural  to  a  woman 
than  the  truth. 

Gretchen   did   not   hesitate  an   instant    to 

(62) 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


believe  the  young  man  of  Meir  Square  to  be 
the  author  of  the  note;  women  never  err  in 
such  matters;  they  have  a  wonderful  instinct, 
a  scent,  which  takes  the  place  of  familiarity 
with  the  world  and  knowledge  of  the  pas- 
sions. The  most  virtuous  of  them  knows 
more  than  Don  Juan  with  his  list. 

We  have  described  our  heroine  as  a  very 
artless,  very  ignorant,  and  very  respectable 
young  woman;  we  must  confess,  however, 
that  she  did  not  feel  the  virtuous  indignation 
which  a  woman  ought  to  feel  who  receives  a 
note  written  in  two  languages  and  containing 
such  a  decided  incongruity.  She  felt  rather  a 
thrill  of  pleasure,  and  a  faint  pink  flush  passed 
over  her  face.  That  letter  was  to  her  like  a 
certificate  of  beauty;  it  reassured  her  concern- 
ing herself,  and  gave  her  a  definite  rank;  it 
was  the  first  glance  that  had  ever  penetrated 
her  modest  obscurity ;  the  small  proportions 
of  her  fortune  prevented  her  being  sought  in 
marriage.     Thus  far  she  had  been  considered 

simply  as  a  child,  Tiburce  consecrated  her  a 

luij 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


young  woman;  she  felt  for  him  such  gratitude 
as  the  pearl  must  feel  for  the  diver  who  dis- 
covers it  in  its  coarse  shell  beneath  the  dark 
cloak  of  the  ocean. 

This  first  impression  passed,  Gretchen  ex- 
perienced a  sensation  well-known  to  all  those 
who  have  been  brought  up  strictly,  and  who 
never  have  had  a  secret;  the  letter  embar- 
rassed her  like  a  block  of  marble;  she  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  Her  room  seemed 
to  her  not  to  have  enough  dark  corners, 
enough  impenetrable  hiding-places,  in  which 
to  conceal  it  from  all  eyes.  She  put  it  in  the 
chest  behind  a  pile  of  linen;  but  after  a  few 
moments  she  took  it  out  again;  the  letter 
blazed  through  the  boards  of  the  wardrobe 
like  Doctor  Faust's  microcosm  in  Rembrandt's 
etching.  Gretchen  looked  for  another,  safer 
place;  Barbara  might  need  napkins  or  sheets 
and  might  find  it.  She  took  a  chair,  stood 
upon  it,  and  placed  the  letter  on  the  canopy 
of  her  bed;  the  paper  burned  her  hands  like  a 
piece  of  red-hot  iron. 

[64] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


Barbara     entered     to     arrange    the     room. 
Gretchen,    alTecting  the    most    indifferent    air 
imaginable,  took  her  usual  seat  and  resumed 
her  work    of  the   day   before;    but   at  every 
step    that    Barbara    took    towards    the   bed, 
she    fell    into  a    horrible    fright;    the   arteries 
in   her  temples   throbbed,  the    hot   sweat  of 
anguish  stood  upon  her  forehead,  her  fingers 
became  entangled  in  the  threads,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  an  invisible  hand  was  grasping  her 
heart.      Barbara  seemed   to   her  to   have   an 
uneasy,  suspicious  expression  which  was  not 
customary  with  her.      At  last  the  old  woman 
went  out,  with  a  basket  on  her  ami,  to  do 
her  marketing.    Poor  Gretchen  breathed  freely 
again,  and  took  down  her  letter,  which  she 
put  in  her  pocket;  but  soon  it  made  her  itch; 
the   creaking  of  the  paper  terrified  her,  and 
she  put  it  in  her  breast;  for  that  is  where  a 
woman  puts  everything  that  embarrasses  her. 
The  waist  of  a  dress  is  a  cupboard  without  a 
key,  an  arsenal  filled  with  flowers,  locks  of 
hair,  lockets,  and  sentimental  epistles;  a  sort 

5  icoj 


Theophile  Gautier 


of  letter-box,  in  which  one  mails  all  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  heart. 

But  why  did  Gretchen  not  burn  that  insig- 
nificant scrap  of  paper  which  caused  her  such 
keen  terror?  In  the  first  place,  Gretchen  had 
never  in  her  life  experienced  such  poignant 
emotion;  she  was  terrified  and  enchanted  at 
once.  And  then,  pray  tell  us  why  lovers 
persist  in  not  destroying  letters  which  may 
lead  later  to  their  detection  and  perdition  ?  It 
is  because  a  letter  is  a  visible  soul;  because 
passion  has  passed  through  that  paltry  sheet 
with  its  electric  fluid,  and  has  imparted  life  to 
it.  To  burn  a  letter  is  to  commit  a  moral 
murder;  in  the  ashes  of  a  destroyed  corre- 
spondence there  are  always  some  particles  of 
two  hearts. 

So  Gretchen  kept  her  letter  in  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  beside  a  little  gold  crucifix,  which 
was  greatly  surprised  to  find  itself  in  close 
proximity  to  a  love-letter. 

Like  a  shrewd  young  man,  Tiburce  left 
his  declaration  time  to  work.     He  played  the 

[66] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


dead  man  and  did  not  again  appear  .n  Rue 
Kipdorp.  Gretchen  was  beginning  to  be 
alarmed,  when  one  fine  morning  she  perceived 
in  the  bars  of  her  window  a  superb  bouquet 
of  exotic  flowers.  Tiburce  had  passed  that 
way;  that  was  his  visiting-card. 

The  bouquet  afforded  much  pleasure  to  the 
young  working-girl,  who  had  become  ac- 
customed to  the  thought  of  Tiburce,  and 
whose  self-esteem  was  secretly  hurt  by  the 
small  amount  of  zeal  which  he  had  shown 
after  such  an  ardent  beginning;  she  took  the 
bunch  of  flowers,  filled  with  water  one  of 
her  pretty  Saxon  vases  with  a  raised  blue 
design,  untied  the  stalks  and  put  them  in 
water,  in  order  to  keep  them  longer.  On 
this  occasion  she  told  the  first  lie  of  her  life, 
informing  Barbara  that  the  bouquet  was  a 
present  from  a  lady  to  whom  she  had  carried 
some  lace,  and  who  knew  her  liking  for 
fiowers. 

During  the  day  Tiburce  came  to  cool  his 
heels  in   front  of  the   house,  on  the   pretext 

[C7) 


Theophile  Gautier 


of  making  a  drawing  of  some  odd  bit  of 
architecture;  he  remained  for  a  long  while, 
working  with  a  blunt  pencil  on  a  piece  of 
wretched  vellum.  Gretchen  played  the  dead 
in  her  turn;  not  a  fold  stirred,  not  a  window 
opened;  the  house  seemed  asleep.  En- 
trenched in  a  corner,  she  was  able  by  means 
of  the  mirror  in  her  work-box  to  watch 
Tiburce  at  her  ease.  She  saw  that  he  was 
tall,  well-built,  with  an  air  of  distinction  in 
his  whole  person,  regular  features,  a  soft  and 
melting  eye,  and  a  melancholy  expression, 
which  touched  her  deeply,  accustomed  as 
she  was  to  the  rubicund  health  of  Brabantine 
faces.  Moreover,  Tiburce,  although  he  was 
neither  a  lion  nor  a  dandy,  did  not  lack 
natural  refinement,  and  must  have  appeared 
an  ultrafashionable  to  a  young  girl  so  inno- 
cent as  Gretchen;  on  Boulevard  de  Gand  he 
would  have  seemed  hardly  up-to-date,  on  Rue 
Kipdorp  he  was  magnificent. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  Gretchen,  obey- 
ing an   adorable   childish   impulse,  rose   and 

[08] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


went  barefooted  to  look  at  her  bouquet;  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  tlowers,  and  kissed 
Tiburce  on  the  red  lips  of  a  magnificent 
dahlia;  she  thrust  her  head  passionately  into 
the  multicoloured  waves  of  that  bath  of 
flowers,  inhaling  with  long  breaths  intox- 
icating perfume,  breathing  with  full  nostrils, 
until  she  felt  her  heart  melt  and  her  eyes 
grow  moist.  When  she  stood  erect,  her 
cheeks  glistened  with  pearly  drops,  and  her 
fascinating  little  nose,  smeared  as  prettily  as 
possible  with  the  golden  dust  from  the  sta- 
mens, was  a  lovely  shade  of  yellow.  She 
wiped  it  laughingly,  returned  to  bed  and  to 
sleep;  as  you  may  imagine,  she  saw  Tiburce 
in  all  her  dreams. 

In  all  this  what  had  become  of  the  Mag- 
dalen of  the  Descent  from  the  Cross?  She 
still  reigned  without  a  rival  in  our  young 
enthusiast's  heart;  she  had  the  advantage 
over  the  loveliest  living  woman  of  being 
impossible;  with  her  there  was  no  disillus- 
ionment,  no  satiety;  she  did   not   break  the 

[CO] 


Theophile  Gautier 


spell  by  commonplace  or  absurd  phrases;  she 
was  always  there,  motionless,  adhering  re- 
ligiously to  the  sovereign  lines  within  which 
the  great  master  had  confined  her;  sure  of 
being  beautiful  to  all  eternity;  and  relating 
to  the  world  in  her  silent  language  the  dream 
of  a  sublime  genius. 

The  little  lace-worker  of  Rue  Kipdorp  was 
truly  a  charming  creature;  but  how  far  were 
her  arms  from  having  that  undulating  and 
supple  contour,  that  potent  energy,  all  en- 
veloped with  grace;  how  juvenile  was  the 
slender  curve  of  her  shoulders!  and  how  pale 
the  shade  of  her  hair  beside  those  strange, 
rich  tones  with  which  Rubens  had  warmed 
the  rippling  locks  of  the  placid  sinner!  Such 
was  the  language  which  Tiburce  used  to 
himself  as  he  walked  upon  the  Quay  of  the 
Scheldt. 

However,  seeing  that  he  made  little  pro- 
gress in  his  love  affair  with  the  painting,  he 
reasoned  with  himself  most  sensibly  concern- 
ing  his   monumental   folly.     He  returned  to 

[70] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


Gretchen,  not  without  a  long-drawn  sigh  of 
regret;  he  did  not  love  her,  but  at  all  events 
she  reminded  him  of  his  dream,  as  a  daughter 
reminds  one  of  an  adored  mother  who  is 
dead.  We  will  not  dwell  on  the  details  of 
this  little  intrigue,  for  every  one  can  easily 
imagine  them.  Chance,  that  great  procurer, 
afforded  our  two  lovers  a  very  natural  oppor- 
tunity to  speak. 

Gretchen  had  gone  as  usual  to  the  Head  of 
Flanders  on  the  other  side  of  the  Scheldt 
with  her  young  friend.  They  had  run  after 
butterflies,  made  wreaths  of  blue-bottles,  and 
rolled  about  on  the  straw  in  the  mills,  so 
long  that  night  had  come  and  the  ferry- 
man had  made  his  last  trip,  unperceived  by 
them.  They  were  standing  there,  both  de- 
cidedly perturbed,  with  one  foot  in  the  water, 
shouting  with  all  the  strength  of  their  little 
silvery  voices  for  him  to  come  back  and  get 
them  ;  but  the  playful  breeze  carried  their 
shouts  away,  and  there  was  no  reply  save 
the  soft  splashing  of  the  waves  on  the  sand. 

■711 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


Luckily,  Tiburce  was  drifting  about  in  a  small 
sailboat;  he  heard  them  and  offered  to  take 
them  across;  an  offer  which  the  friend  eagerly 
accepted,  despite  Gretchen's  embarrassed  air 
and  her  flushed  cheeks.  Tiburce  escorted  her 
home  and  took  care  to  organise  a  boating 
party  for  the  following  Sunday,  with  the 
assent  of  Barbara,  whom  his  assiduous  at- 
tendance at  the  churches  and  his  devotion 
to  the  picture  of  the  Descent  from  the  Cross 
had  very  favourably  disposed. 

Tiburce  met  with  no  great  resistance  on 
Gretchen's  part.  She  was  so  pure  that  she 
did  not  defend  herself,  because  she  did  not 
know  that  she  was  attacked ;  and  besides, 
she  loved  Tiburce;  for  although  he  talked 
very  jocosely  and  expressed  himself  upon 
all  subjects  with  ironical  heedlessness,  she 
divined  that  he  was  unhappy,  and  a  woman's 
instinct  is  to  console:  grief  attracts  them  as 
a  mirror  attracts  the  lark. 

Although  the  young  Frenchman  was  most 
attentive  to  her  and  treated  her  with  extreme 

[72] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


courtesy,  she  felt  that  she  did  not  possess  his 
heart  entirely,  and  that  there  were  corners 
in  his  mind  to  which  she  never  penetrated. 
Some  hidden  thought  of  superior  moment 
seemed  to  engross  him  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  made  frequent  journeys  into  an  un- 
known world;  his  fancy,  borne  away  by  the 
involuntary  flappings  of  its  wings,  lost  its 
footing  constantly  and  beat  against  the  ceil- 
ing, seeking,  like  a  captive  bird,  some  issue 
through  which  to  dart  forth  into  the  blue 
sky.  Often  he  scrutinised  her  with  extra- 
ordinary earnestness  for  hours  at  a  time, 
sometimes  with  a  satisfied  expression,  and 
again  with  an  air  of  dissatisfaction.  That 
look  was  not  the  look  of  a  lover.  Gretchen 
could  not  understand  such  behaviour,  but  as 
she  was  sure  of  Tiburce's  loyalty,  she  was 
not  alarmed. 

Tiburce,  on  the  pretext  that  Gretchen's 
name  was  hard  to  pronounce,  had  christened 
her  Magdalen,  a  substitution  which  she  had 
gladly  accepted,  feeling  a  secret   pleasure  in 

[731 


Theophile  Gautier 


having  her  lover  call  her  by  a  different  and 
mysterious  name,  as  if  she  were  to  him 
another  woman.  He  still  made  frequent  visits 
to  the  cathedral,  teasing  his  mania  by  im- 
potent contemplations;  and  on  those  days 
Gretchen  paid  the  penalty  for  the  harsh  treat- 
ment of  the  Magdalen;  the  real  had  to  pay 
for  the  ideal.  He  was  cross,  bored,  tiresome, 
which  the  honest  creature  ascribed  to  irritated 
nerves  or  too  persistent  reading. 

Nevertheless,  Gretchen  was  a  charming  girl, 
who  deserved  to  be  loved  on  her  own  ac- 
count. Not  in  all  the  divisions  of  Flanders, 
in  Brabant  or  Hainault,  could  you  find  a 
whiter  and  fresher  skin  and  hair  of  a  lovelier 
shade;  her  hand  was  at  once  plump  and 
slender,  with  nails  like  agate, — a  genuine 
princess's  hand;  and — a  rare  perfection  in  the 
country  of  Rubens — a  small  foot. 

Ah!  Tiburce,  Tiburce,  who  longed  to  hold 
in  your  arms  a  real  ideal,  and  to  kiss  your 
chimera  on  the  mouth,  beware!  Chimeras, 
despite  their  rounded  throats,  their  swan's 

[74] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


wings,  and  their  sparkling  smiles,  have  sharp 
teeth  and  tearing  claws.  The  evil  creatures 
will  pump  the  pure  blood  from  your  heart, 
and  leave  you  dryer  and  more  hollow  than  a 
sponge;  avoid  that  unbridled  ambition,  do 
not  try  to  make  marble  statues  descend  from 
their  pedestals,  and  do  not  address  your  sup- 
plications to  dumb  canvases;  al!  your  paint- 
ers and  your  poets  were  afflicted  with  the 
same  disease  that  you  have;  they  tried  to 
make  creations  of  their  own  in  the  midst 
of  God's  creation.  With  marble,  with  colours, 
with  the  rhythm  of  verses,  they  translated 
and  defined  their  dream  of  beauty;  their  works 
are  not  the  portraits  of  their  mistresses,  but 
of  the  mistresses  they  longed  for,  and  you 
would  seek  in  vain  their  models  on  earth. 
Go  and  buy  another  bouquet  for  Gretchen, 
who  is  a  sweet  and  lovely  maiden;  drop  your 
dead  women  and  your  phantoms,  and  try  to 
live  with  the  people  of  this  world. 


I75J 


Theophile  Gautier 


V 


YES,  Tiburce,  though  it  will  surprise  you 
greatly  to  learn  it,  Gretchen  is  vastly 
superior  to  you.  She  has  never  read  the 
poets,  and  does  not  even  know  the  names 
of  Homer  and  Virgil;  the  lamentations  of  the 
Wandering  Jew,  of  Henriette  and  Damon, 
printed  on  wood  and  roughly-coloured,  com- 
pose all  of  her  literature,  except  the  Latin  in 
her  mass-book,  which  she  spells  out  con- 
scientiously every  Sunday;  Virginie  knew 
little  more  in  the  solitude  of  her  paradise  of 
magnolias  and  roses. 

You  are,  it  is  true,  thoroughly  posted  in 
literary  affairs.  You  are  profoundly  versed 
in  aesthetics,  esoterics,  plastics,  architecton- 
ics, and  poetics;  Marphurius  and  Pancratius 
had  not  a  finer  list  of  acquirements  in  ics. 
From  Orpheus  and  Lycophron  down  to  M. 
de  Lamartine's  last  volume,  you  have  de- 
voured everything  that  is  composed  of  me- 
tres,   of  rimed   lines,    and    of   strophes   cast 

[76] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


in  every  possible  mould;  no  romance  has  es- 
caped you.     You  have  traversed  from  end  to 
end  the  vast  world  of  the  imagination;  you 
know  all  the  painters  from  Andrea   Rico  of 
Crete,    and  Bizzamano,    down   to    Messieurs 
Ingres    and     Delacroix;    you     have    studied 
beauty  at  its  purest  sources;  the  bas-reliefs 
of  vagina,  the  friezes  of  the  Parthenon,  the 
Etruscan    vases,    the    hieratic    sculptures    of 
Egypt,  Greek  art  and  Roman  art,  the  Gothic 
and  the  Renaissance;  you  have  searched  and 
analysed  everything;  you  have  become  a  sort 
of  jockey  of  Beauty,  whose  advice  painters 
take  when  they  desire  to  select  a  model,  as 
one  consults  a   groom  concerning  the   pur- 
chase of  a  horse.     Certainly  no  one  is  more 
familiar  than  you  with  the   physical  side  of 
woman;  you  are  as  expert  as  an  Athenian 
sculptor  on  that  point;   but  poetry  has  en- 
grossed  you   so   much   that   you   have  sup- 
pressed   nature,   the    world,    and   life.     Your 
mistresses  have  been  to  you  simply  pictures 
more   or   less   satisfying;   your   love   for  the 

[77] 


Theophile  Gautier 


beautiful  and  attractive  ones  was  in  the  pro- 
portion of  a  Titian  to  a  Coucher  or  a  Vanloo; 
but  you  have  never  wondered  whether  any- 
thing real  throbbed  and  vibrated  beneath  that 
exterior.  Although  you  have  a  kind  heart, 
grief  and  joy  seem  to  you  like  two  grimaces 
which  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  the  outlines; 
woman  is  in  your  eyes  a  warm  statue. 

Ah!  unhappy  child,  throw  your  books 
into  the  fire,  tear  your  engraving,  shatter 
your  plaster  casts,  forget  Raphael,  forget 
Homer,  forget  Phidias,  since  you  have  not 
the  courage  to  take  a  pencil,  a  pen,  or  a 
modelling-tool;  of  what  use  is  this  sterile 
admiration  to  you?  what  will  be  the  end 
of  these  insane  impulses  ?  Do  not  demand 
more  of  life  than  it  can  give  you.  Great 
geniuses  alone  are  entitled  not  to  be  content 
with  creation.  They  can  go  and  look  the 
Sphinx  squarely  in  the  face,  for  they  solve  its 
riddles.  But  you  are  not  a  great  genius;  be 
simple  of  heart,  love  those  who  love  you, 
and,  as  Jean  Paul  says,  do  not  ask  for  moon- 

[781 


The   Fleece  of  Gold 


light,  or  lor  a  gondola  on  Lake  MaggMre,  or 
tor  a  rendezvous  at  isola  Bella. 

Become  a  philanthropic  advocate  or  a  con- 
cierge, limit  your  ambition  to  becoming  a 
voter  and  a  corporal  in  your  company;  have 
what  in  the  world  is  called  a  trade;  become 
an  honest  citizen.  At  these  words  no  doubt 
your  long  hair  will  stand  erect  in  horror,  for 
you  have  the  same  scorn  for  the  simple  bour- 
geois that  the  German  student  professes  for 
the  philistine,  the  soldier  for  the  civilian,  and 
the  Brahma  for  the  Pariah.  You  crush  with 
ineffable  disdain  every  worthy  tradesman 
who  prefers  a  vaudeville  song  to  a  tercet  of 
Dante,  and  the  muslin  of  fashionable  portrait- 
painters  to  a  sketch  by  Michelangelo.  Such 
a  man  is  in  your  eyes  below  the  brute,  and 
yet  there  are  plain  citizens  whose  minds — 
and  they  have  minds — are  rich  with  poetic 
feeling,  who  are  capable  of  love  and  devotion, 
and  who  experience  emotions  of  which  you 
are  incapable,  you  whose  brain  has  annihi- 
lated the  heart. 

in) 


Theophile  Gautier 


Look  at  Gretchen,  who  has  done  nothing 
but  water  carnations  and  make  lace  all  her 
life;  she  is  a  thousand  times  more  poetic  than 
you,  monsieur  r artiste,  as  they  say  nowadays; 
she  believes,  she  hopes,  she  smiles,  and  weeps; 
a  word  from  you  brings  sunshine  or  rain  to 
her  lovely  face;  she  sits  there  in  her  great 
upholstered  armchair,  beside  her  window,  in 
a  melancholy  light,  at  work  upon  her  usual 
task;  but  how  her  young  brain  labours!  how 
fast  her  imagination  travels!  how  many  castles 
in  Spain  she  builds  and  throws  down!  See 
her  blush  and  turn  pale,  turn  hot  and  cold, 
like  the  amorous  maiden  of  the  ancient  ode; 
her  lace  drops  from  her  hands,  she  has  heard 
on  the  brick  sidewalk  a  step  which  she  dis- 
tinguishes among  a  thousand,  with  all  the 
acuteness  which  passion  gives  to  the  senses; 
although  you  arrive  at  the  appointed  time,  she 
has  been  waiting  for  you  a  long  while.  All 
day  you  have  been  her  sole  preoccupation; 
she  has  asked  herself:  "Where  is  he  now  ? — 
What  is  he  doing  ? — Is  he  thinking  of  me  as  I 

[80] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


am  thinking  of  him? — Perhaps  he  is  ill;  yes- 
terday he  seemed  to  me  paler  than  usual,  and 
he  had  a  distressed  and  preoccupied  expres- 
sion when  he  left  me;  can  anything  have 
happened  to  him  ?  Has  he  received  unpleas- 
ant news  from  Paris  ?  " — and  all  those  ques- 
tions which  love  propounds  to  itself  in  its 
sublime  disquietude. 

That  poor  child,  with  her  great  loving  heart, 
has  displaced  the  centre  of  her  existence,  she 
no  longer  lives  except  in  you  and  through 
you.  By  virtue  of  the  wonderful  mystery  of 
the  incarnation  of  love,  her  soul  inhabits  your 
body,  her  spirit  descends  upon  you  and  visits 
you;  she  would  throw  herself  in  front  of  the 
sword  which  should  threaten  your  breast;  the 
blow  that  should  reach  you  would  cause  her 
death;  and  yet  you  have  taken  her  up  simply 
as  a  plaything,  to  use  her  as  a  manikin  for 
your  ideal.  To  merit  such  a  wealth  of  love, 
you  have  darted  a  few  glances  at  her,  given 
her  a  few  bouquets,  and  declaimed  in  a  pas- 
sionate tone  the  commonplaces  of  romance. 

6  [81] 


Theophile  Gautier 


A  more  earnest  lover  would  have  failed  per- 
haps; for,  alas!  to  inspire  love,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  feel  it  one's  self.  You  have  de- 
liberately disturbed  for  all  time  the  limpidity 
of  that  modest  existence.  Upon  my  word. 
Master  Tiburce,  adorer  of  the  blonde  type  and 
contemner  of  the  bourgeois,  you  have  done  a 
cruel  thing;  we  regret  to  be  obliged  to  tell 
you  so. 

Gretchen  was  not  happy;  she  divined  an 
invisible  rival  between  herself  and  her  lover 
and  jealousy  seized  her;  she  watched  Tiburce's 
movements,  and  saw  that  he  went  only  to  his 
hotel,  the  Arms  of  Brabant,  and  to  the  cathe- 
dral on  Melr  Square.     She  was  reassured. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,"  she  asked 
him  once,  "that  you  are  always  looking  at 
the  figure  of  the  Magdalen  supporting  the 
Saviour's  body  in  the  picture  of  the  Descent 
from  the  Cross  ?  " 

"Because  she  looks  like  you,"  Tiburce  re- 
plied. 

Gretchen  blushed  with  pleasure  and  ran  to 

[82] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


the  mirror  to  verify  the  accuracy  of  the  com- 
parison; she  saw  that  she  had  the  unctuous 
and  glowing  eyes,  the  fair  hair,  the  arched 
forehead,  the  general  shape  of  the  saint's 
face. 

"So  that  is  the  reason  that  you  call  me 
Magdalen  and  not  Gretchen,  or  Marguerite, 
which  is  my  real  name  ?" 

"Precisely  so,"  replied  Tiburce,  with  an 
embarrassed  air. 

"I  would  never  have  believed  that  I  was  so 
lovely,"  said  Gretchen;  "and  it  makes  me 
very  happy,  for  you  will  love  me  better  for 
it." 

Serenity  returned  for  some  time  to  the 
maiden's  heart,  and  we  must  confess  that 
Tiburce  made  virtuous  efforts  to  combat  his 
insane  passion.  The  fear  of  becoming  a 
monomaniac  came  to  his  mind;  and  to  cut 
short  that  obsession  he  determined  to  return 
to  Paris. 

Before  starting,  he  went  to  pay  one  last 
visit  to  the  cathedral,  and  his  friend  the  beadle 

f83] 


Theophile  Gautier 


opened  the  shutters  of  the  Descent  from  the 
Cross  for  him. 

The  Magdalen  seemed  to  him  more  sad  and 
disconsolate  than  usual;  great  tears  rolled 
down  her  pallid  cheeks,  her  mouth  was  con- 
tracted by  a  spasm  of  grief,  a  bluish  circle 
surrounded  her  melting  eyes,  the  sunbeam  had 
left  her  hair,  and  there  was,  in  her  whole  atti- 
tude, an  expression  of  despair  and  prostration; 
one  would  have  said  that  she  no  longer  be- 
lieved in  the  resurrection  of  her  beloved  Lord. 
In  truth,  the  Christ  was  that  day  of  such  a 
sallow,  greenish  hue  that  it  was  difficult  to 
imagine  that  life  could  ever  return  to  his 
decomposing  flesh.  All  the  other  people  in 
the  picture  seemed  to  share  that  feeling;  their 
eyes  were  dull,  their  expressions  mournful,  and 
their  halos  gave  forth  only  a  leaden  gleam; 
the  livid  hue  of  death  had  invaded  that  canvas 
formerly  so  warm  and  full  of  life. 

Tiburce  was  deeply  touched  by  the  expres- 
sion of  supreme  melancholy  upon  the  Mag- 
dalen's face,  and  his  resolution  to  depart  was 

r84] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


shaken.  He  preferred  to  attribute  it  to  a 
secret  sympathy  rather  than  to  a  caprice  of 
the  light.  The  weather  was  dull,  the  rain 
cut  the  sky  with  slender  threads,  and  a  ray  of 
daylight,  drenched  with  water  and  mist,  forced 
its  way  with  difficulty  through  the  glass, 
streaming  and  beaten  by  the  wing  of  the 
squall;  that  reason  was  much  too  plausible  to 
be  admitted  by  Tiburce. 

"  Ah!  "  he  said  to  himself  in  an  undertone, 
quoting  a  verse  of  one  of  our  young  poets, 
"  '  How  I  would  love  thee  to-morrow  if  thou 
wert  living!' — Why  art  thou  only  an  impal- 
pable ghost,  attached  forever  to  the  meshes 
of  this  canvas  and  held  captive  by  this  thin 
layer  of  varnish  ?  Why  art  thou  the  phantom 
of  life,  without  the  power  to  live  ?  What 
does  it  profit  thee  to  be  lovely,  noble,  and 
great,  to  have  in  thine  eyes  the  flame  of 
earthly  love  and  of  divine  love,  and  about  thy 
head  the  resplendent  halo  of  repentance,  being 
simply  a  little  oil  and  paint  spread  on  canvas 
in  a  certain  way?     Oh!    lovely  adored  one, 

[86] 


Theophile  Gautier 


turn  towards  me  for  an  instant  that  glance,  at 
once  so  soft  and  so  dazzling;  sinner,  take  pity 
upon  an  insane  passion,  thou,  to  whom  love 
opened  the  gates  of  Heaven;  descend  from 
that  frame,  stand  erect  in  thy  long,  green  satin 
skirt;  for  it  is  a  long  while  that  thou  hast 
knelt  before  the  sublime  scaffold;  these  holy 
women  will  guard  the  body  without  thee  and 
will  suffice  for  the  death  vigil.  Come,  Mag- 
dalen, come!  thou  hast  not  emptied  all  thy 
jars  of  perfume  at  the  feet  of  the  Divine  Mas- 
ter; there  must  remain  enough  of  nard  and 
cinnamon  in  the  bottom  of  thy  onyx  jar  to 
renew  the  lustre  of  thy  hair,  dimmed  by  the 
ashes  of  repentance.  Thou  shalt  have,  as  of 
yore,  strings  of  pearls,  negro  pages,  and 
coverlets  of  the  purple  of  Sidon.  Come, 
Magdalen,  although  thou  hast  been  two  thou- 
sand years  dead,  I  have  enough  of  youth  and 
ardour  to  reanimate  thy  dust.  Ah!  spectre 
of  beauty,  let  me  but  hold  thee  in  my  arms 
one  instant,  then  let  me  die!  " 
A  stifled  sigh,  as  faint  and  soft  as  the  wail 

[86] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


of  a  dove  mortally  wounded,  echoed  sadly  in 
the  air.  Tiburce  thought  that  the  Magdalen 
had  answered  him. 

It  was  Gretchen,  who,  hidden  behind  a 
pillar,  had  seen  all,  heard  all,  understood  all. 
Something  had  broken  in  her  heart;  she  was 
not  loved. 

That  evening  Tiburce  came  to  see  her;  he 
was  pale  and  depressed.  Gretchen  was  as 
white  as  wax.  The  excitement  of  the  morn- 
ing had  driven  the  colour  from  her  cheeks, 
like  the  powder  from  the  wings  of  a  butterfly. 

"I  start  for  Paris  to-morrow;  will  you 
come  with  me  ?" 

"To  Paris  or  elsewhere;  wherever  you 
please,"  replied  Gretchen,  in  whom  every 
shred  of  will-power  seemed  extinct;  "shall  I 
not  be  unhappy  everywhere?" 

Tiburce  flashed  a  keen  and  searching  glance 
at  her. 

"Come  to-morrow  morning;  1  will  be 
ready;  1  have  given  you  my  heart  and  my 
life.     Dispose  of  your  servant." 

(87) 


Thdophile  Gautier 


She  went  with  Tiburce  to  the  Arms  of 
Brabant,  to  assist  him  to  make  his  prepara- 
tions for  departure;  she  packed  his  books,  his 
linen,  and  his  pictures,  then  she  returned  to 
her  little  room  on  Rue  Kipdorp;  she  did  not 
undress,  but  threw  herself  fully  dressed  upon 
her  bed. 

An  unconquerable  depression  had  seized 
upon  her  soul;  everything  about  her  seemed 
sad:  the  bouquets  were  withered  in  their  blue 
glass  vases,  the  lamp  flickered  and  cast  a  dim 
and  intermittent  light;  the  ivory  Christ  bent 
His  head  in  despair  upon  His  breast,  and  the 
blessed  boxwood  assumed  the  aspect  of  a 
cypress  dipped  in  lustral  water. 

The  little  Virgin  from  her  little  recess 
watched  her  in  surprise  with  her  enamel 
eyes;  and  the  storm,  pressing  his  knee  against 
the  window-pane,  made  the  lead  partitions 
groan  and  creak. 

The  heaviest  furniture,  the  most  unimportant 
utensils,  wore  an  expression  of  intelligence 
and  compassion;  they  cracked  dolorously  and' 

[68] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


gave  forth  mournful  sounds.  The  easy-chair 
held  out  its  long,  unoccupied  arms;  the  hop- 
vine  on  the  trellis  passed  its  little  green  hand 
familiarly  through  a  broken  pane;  the  kettle 
complained  and  wept  among  the  ashes;  the 
curtains  of  the  bed  fell  in  more  lifeless  and 
more  distressed  folds;  the  whole  room  seemed 
to  understand  that  it  was  about  to  lose  its 
young  mistress.  Gretchen  called  her  old 
servant,  who  wept  bitterly;  she  handed  her 
her  keys  and  the  certificates  of  her  little  in- 
come, then  opened  the  cage  of  her  two  coffee- 
coloured  turtle-doves  and  set  them  free. 

The  next  morning  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Paris  with  Tiburce. 

VI 

TIBURCE'S  apartment  greatly  surprised  the 
young  Antwerp  maiden,  accustomed  to 
Flemish  strictness  and  method.  That  mixture 
of  luxury  and  heedlessness  upset  all  her  ideas. 
For  instance,  a  crimson  velvet  cover  was 
thrown  upon  a  wretched  broken  table;  mag- 

[89] 


Theophile  Gautier 


nificent  candelabra  of  the  most  ornate  style, 
which  would  not  have  been  out  of  place  in 
the  boudoir  of  a  king's  mistress,  were  sup- 
plied with  paltry  bobeches  of  common  glass, 
which  the  candles,  burning  down  to  the  very 
bottom,  had  burst;  a  china  vase  of  beautiful 
material  and  workmanship  and  of  great  value 
had  received  a  kick  in  the  side,  and  its  splin- 
tered fragments  were  held  together  by  iron 
wire;  exceedingly  rare  engravings  before  let- 
ter were  fastened  to  the  wall  by  pins;  a  Greek 
cap  was  on  the  head  of  an  antique  Venus, 
and  a  multitude  of  incongruous  objects,  such 
as  Turkish  pipes,  narghiles,  daggers,  yata- 
ghans, Chinese  shoes,  and  Indian  slippers, 
encumbered  the  chairs  and  what-nots. 

The  painstaking  Gretchen  had  no  rest  until 
all  this  was  cleaned,  neatly  hung,  and  labelled; 
like  God  who  made  the  world  from  chaos, 
she  made  of  that  medley  a  delightful  apart- 
ment. Tiburce,  who  was  accustomed  to 
its  confusion  and  who  knew  perfectly  where 
things  ought  not  to  be,  had  difficulty  at  first  in 

£90] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


recognising  his  surroundings;  but  he  ended 
by  becoming  used  to  it.  The  objects  which 
he  disarranged  returned  to  their  places  as  if 
by  magic.  He  realised  for  the  first  time  what 
comfort  meant.  Like  all  imaginative  people, 
he  neglected  details.  The  door  of  his  bed- 
room was  gilded  and  covered  with  ara- 
besques, but  it  had  no  weather-strips;  like 
the  genuine  savage  that  he  was,  he  loved 
splendour  and  not  well-being;  he  would  have 
worn,  like  the  Orientals,  waistcoats  of  gold 
brocade  lined  with  towelling. 

And  yet,  although  he  seemed  to  enjoy  this 
more  human  and  more  reasonable  mode  of 
life,  he  was  often  sad  and  distraught;  he 
would  remain  whole  days  upon  his  divan, 
flanked  by  two  piles  of  cushions,  with  eyes 
closed  and  hands  hanging,  and  not  utter  a 
word;  Gretchen  dared  not  question  him,  she 
was  so  afraid  of  his  reply.  The  scene  in  the 
cathedral  had  remained  engraved  upon  her 
memory,  in  painful  and  ineffacable  strokes. 

He  continued  to  think  of  the  Magdalen  at 

191J 


Theophile  Gautier 


Antwerp;  absence  made  her  more  beautiful 
in  his  sight;  he  saw  her  before  him  lii^e  a 
luminous  apparition.  An  imaginary  sunlight 
riddled  her  hair  with  rays  of  gold,  her  dress 
had  the  transparency  of  an  emerald,  her 
shoulders  gleamed  like  Parian  marble.  Her 
tears  had  dried,  and  youth  shone  in  all  its 
bloom  upon  the  down  of  her  rosy  cheeks; 
she  seemed  entirely  consoled  for  the  death 
of  the  Christ,  whose  bluish  white  foot  she 
supported  heedlessly,  while  she  turned  her 
face  towards  her  earthly  lover.  The  rigid 
outlines  of  sanctity  were  softened  and  had 
become  undulating  and  supple;  the  sinner 
reappeared  in  the  person  of  the  penitent;  her 
neckerchief  floated  more  freely,  her  skirt 
swelled  out  in  alluring  and  worldly  folds, 
her  arms  were  amorously  outstretched,  as  if 
ready  to  seize  a  victim  of  love.  The  great 
saint  had  become  a  courtesan,  and  had  trans- 
formed herself  into  a  temptress.  In  a  more 
credulous  age  Tiburce  would  have  seen  therein 
some    underhand   machination  of   him  who 

[92] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


goes  prowling  about,  "seeking  whom  he 
may  devour";  he  would  have  believed  that 
the  devil's  claw  was  upon  his  shoulder  and 
that  he  was  bewitched  in  due  form. 

How  did  it  happen  that  Tiburce,  beloved 
by  a  charming  young  girl,  simple  of  heart, 
and  endowed  with  intelligence,  possessed  of 
beauty,  youth,  innocence,  all  the  real  gifts 
which  come  from  God,  and  which  no  one 
can  acquire,  persisted  in  pursuing  a  mad 
chimera,  an  impossible  dream;  and  how  could 
that  mind,  so  keen  and  powerful,  have  arrived 
at  such  a  degree  of  aberration  ?  Such  things 
are  seen  every  day;  have  we  not,  each  one 
of  us  in  our  respective  spheres,  been  loved 
obscurely  by  some  humble  heart,  while  we 
sought  more  exalted  loves  ?  Have  not  we 
trodden  under  foot  a  pale  violet  with  its 
timid  perfume,  while  striding  along  with 
lowered  eyes  towards  a  cold  and  gleaming  star 
which  cast  its  ironic  glance  upon  us  from  the 
depths  of  infinity  ?  Has  not  the  abyss  its 
magnetism  and  the  impossible  its  fascination  ? 

[93] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


One  day  Tiburce  entered  Gretchen's  chamber 
carrying  a  bundle;  he  took  from  it  a  skirt 
and  waist  of  green  satin,  made  after  the 
antique  style,  a  chemisette  of  a  shape  long 
out  of  fashion,  and  a  string  of  huge  pearls. 
He  requested  Gretchen  to  put  on  those 
garments,  which  could  not  fail  to  be  most 
becoming  to  her,  and  to  keep  them  in  the 
house;  he  told  her  by  way  of  explanation 
that  he  was  very  fond  of  sixteenth-century 
costumes,  and  that  by  falling  in  with  that 
fancy  of  his  she  would  confer  very  great 
pleasure  upon  him.  You  will  readily  believe 
that  a  young  girl  did  not  need  to  be  asked 
twice  to  try  on  a  new  gown;  she  was  soon 
dressed,  and  when  she  entered  the  salon,  Ti- 
burce could  not  withhold  a  cry  of  surprise  and 
admiration.  He  found  something  to  criticise, 
however,  in  the  head-dress,  and,  releasing 
the  hair  from  the  teeth  of  the  comb,  he  spread 
it  out  in  great  curls  over  Gretchen's  shoulders, 
like  the  Magdalen's  hair  in  the  Descent  from 
the  Cross.     That  done,  he  gave  a  different 

[94] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


twist  to  some  folds  of  the  skirt,  loosened  the 
laces  of  the  waist,  rumpled  the  neckerchief, 
which  was  too  stiff  and  starchy,  and,  stepping 
back  a  few  feet,  contemplated  his  work. 

Doubtless  you  have  seen  what  are  called 
living  pictures,  at  some  special  performance. 
The  most  beautiful  actresses  are  selected,  and 
dressed  and  posed  in  such  wise  as  to  repro- 
duce some  familiar  painting.  Tiburce  had 
achieved  a  masterpiece  of  that  sort;  you 
would  have  said  that  it  was  a  bit  cut  from 
Rubens's  canvas. 

Gretchen  made  a  movement. 

"Don't  stir,  you  will  spoil  the  pose;  you 
are  so  lovely  thus!"  cried  Tiburce  in  a  tone 
of  entreaty. 

The  poor  girl  obeyed  and  remained  motion- 
less for  several  minutes.  When  she  turned, 
Tiburce  saw  that  her  face  was  bathed  in  tears. 

He  realised  that  she  knew  all. 

Gretchen's  tears  flowed  silently  down  her 
cheeks,  without  contraction  of  the  features, 
without  effort,   like   pearls  overflowing  from 


Theophile  Gautier 


the  too  full  cup  of  her  eyes,  lovely  azure  flow- 
ers of  divine  limpidity;  grief  could  not  mar 
the  harmony  of  her  face,  and  her  tears  were 
lovelier  than  another  woman's  smile. 

Gretchen  wiped  them  away  with  the  back 
of  her  hand,  and  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  a 
chair,  she  said  in  a  voice  tremulous  and  melt- 
ing with  emotion: 

"Oh,  how  you  have  made  me  suffer, 
Tiburce!  Jealousy  of  a  new  sort  wrung  my 
heart;  although  1  had  no  rival,  I  was  betrayed 
none  the  less;  you  loved  a  painted  woman, 
she  possessed  your  thoughts,  your  dreams, 
she  alone  seemed  fair  to  you,  who  saw  only 
her  in  all  the  world;  plunged  in  that  mad 
contemplation,  you  did  not  even  see  that  I 
had  wept.  And  I  believed  for  an  instant  that 
you  loved  me,  whereas  1  was  simply  a  dupli- 
cate, a  counterfeit  of  your  passion!  I  know 
well  that  in  your  eyes  1  am  only  an  ignorant 
little  girl  who  speaks  French  with  a  German 
accent  that  makes  you  laugh;  my  face  pleases 
you  as  a  reminder  of  your  imaginary  mistress; 

[96] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


you  see  in  me  a  pretty  manikin  which  you 
drape  according  to  your  fancy;  but  I  tell  you 
the  manikin  suffers  and  loves  you." 

Tiburce  tried  to  draw  her  to  his  heart,  but 
she  released  herself  and  continued: 

"You  talked  to  me  enchantingly  of  love, 
you  taught  me  that  I  was  lovely  and  charming 
to  look  upon,  you  pressed  my  hands  and  de- 
clared that  no  fairy  had  smaller  ones,  you  said 
of  my  hair  that  it  was  more  precious  than 
a  prince's  golden  cloak,  and  of  my  eyes  that 
the  angels  came  down  from  Heaven  to  look 
at  themselves  in  them,  and  that  they  stayed 
so  long  that  they  were  late  in  returning  and 
were  scolded  by  the  good  Lord;  and  all  this 
in  a  sweet  and  penetrating  voice,  with  an 
accent  of  truth  that  would  have  deceived 
those  more  experienced  than  I.  Alas!  my 
resemblance  to  the  Magdalen  in  the  picture 
kindled  your  imagination  and  gave  you  that 
artificial  eloquence ;  she  answered  you  through 
my  mouth;  I  gave  her  the  life  that  she  lacks, 

and  1  served  to  complete  your  illusion.      If  1 
7  [wj 


Theophile  Gautier 


have  given  you  a  few  moments  of  happiness, 
I  forgive  you  for  making  me  play  this  part. 
After  all,  it  is  not  your  fault  if  you  do  not 
know  how  to  love,  if  the  impossible  alone 
attracts  you,  if  you  long  only  for  that  which 
you  cannot  attain.  You  are  ambitious  to 
love,  you  are  deceived  concerning  yourself, 
you  will  never  love.  You  must  have  perfec- 
tion, the  ideal  and  poesy — all  those  things 
which  do  not  exist.  Instead  of  loving  in  a 
woman  the  love  that  she  has  for  you,  of 
being  grateful  to  her  for  her  devotion  and  for 
the  gift  of  her  heart,  you  look  to  see  if  she  re- 
sembles that  plaster  Venus  in  your  study. 
Woe  to  her  if  the  outline  of  her  brow  has  not 
the  desired  curve!  You  are  concerned  about 
the  grain  of  her  skin,  the  shade  of  her  hair,  the 
fineness  of  her  wrists  and  her  ankles,  but 
never  about  her  heart.  You  are  not  a  lover, 
poor  Tiburce,  you  are  simply  a  painter. 
What  you  have  taken  for  passion  is  simply 
admiration  for  shape  and  beauty;  you  were 
in  love  with  the  talent  of  Rubens,  not  with 

[98] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


the  Magdalen ;  your  vocation  of  painter  stirred 
vaguely  within  you  and  produced  those  fran- 
tic outbursts  which  you  could  not  control. 
Thence  came  all  the  degradation  of  your  fan- 
tasy. I  have  discovered  this,  because  I  love 
you.  Love  is  a  woman's  genius,  her  mind  is 
not  engrossed  in  selfish  contemplation !  Since 
I  have  been  here  I  have  turned  over  your 
books,  I  have  read  your  poets,  1  have  be- 
come almost  a  scholar.  The  veil  has  fallen 
from  my  eyes.  I  have  discovered  many 
things  that  1  should  never  have  suspected. 
Thus  I  have  been  able  to  read  clearly  in 
your  heart.  You  used  to  draw,  take  up 
your  pencils  again.  You  must  place  your 
dreams  upon  canvas,  and  all  this  great  agita- 
tion will  calm  down  of  itself  If  I  cannot 
be  your  mistress,  I  will  at  all  events  be  your 
model." 

She  rang  and  told  the  servant  to  bring  an 
easel,  canvas,  colours,  and  brushes. 

When  the  servant  had  prepared  everything, 

the  chaste  girl  suddenly  let  her  garments  fall 

(Ml 


Theophile  Gautier 


to  the  floor  with  sublime  immodesty,  and 
raising  her  hair,  like  Aphrodite  coming  forth 
from  the  sea,  stood  in  the  bright  light. 

"Am  I  not  as  lovely  as  your  ^^enus  of 
Milo  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  sweet  little  pout. 

After  two  hours,  the  face  was  already  alive 
and  half  protruding  from  the  canvas;  in  a 
week  it  was  finished.  It  was  not  a  perfect 
picture,  however;  but  an  exquisite  touch  of 
refinement  and  of  purity,  a  wonderful  softness 
of  tone,  and  the  noble  simplicity  of  the  ar- 
rangement made  it  noteworthy,  especially  to 
connoisseurs.  That  slender  white  and  fair- 
haired  figure,  standing  forth  in  an  uncon- 
strained attitude  against  the  twofold  azure  of 
the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  presenting  herself  to 
the  world  nude  and  smiling,  had  a  reflection 
of  antique  poesy  and  recalled  the  best  periods 
of  Greek  sculpture. 

Tiburce  had  already  forgotten  the  Magdalen 
of  Antwerp. 

"Well!"  said  Gretchen,  "are  you  satisfied 

with  your  model  ?" 

[loe] 


The  Fleece  of  Gold 


"When  would  you  like  to  publish  our 
banns?"  was  Tiburce's  reply. 

"I  shall  be  the  wife  of  a  great  painter,"  she 
said,  throwing  her  arms  about  her  lover's 
neck;  "but  do  not  forget,  monsieur,  that  it 
was  I  who  discovered  your  genius,  that  price- 
less jewel — I,  little  Gretchen  of  Rue  Kipdorp!  " 

'839. 


Iiuil 


Arria  Marcella 


[1031 


Arria  Marcella 

A  SOUVENIR  OF  POMPEII 

THREE  young  men,  three  friends  who 
were  travelling  in  Italy  together,  visited 
last  year  the  Studj  Museum  '  at  Naples,  where 
the  various  antique  objects  exhumed  from 
the  ruins  of  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  are 
collected. 

They  had  scattered  through  the  rooms  and 
were  looking  at  the  mosaics,  the  bronzes,  the 
frescoes  taken  from  the  walls  of  the  dead 
city,  as  their  fancy  led  them;  and  when  one 
of  them  found  something  especially  interest- 
ing, he  would  call  his  companions  with  shouts 
of  joy,  to  the  great  scandal  of  the  taciturn 
English  and  the  staid  bourgeois,  intent  upon 
turning  the  leaves  of  their  guide-books. 

But    the    youngest    of  the    three,    having 

'  Now  the  Museo  Nazionale  ;  formerly  the  Museo  Bor- 
bonico,  or  Museo  gli  Studj. — [Trans] 

(1051 


Th6ophile  Gautier 


paused  in  front  of  a  glass  case,  seemed  not 
to  hear  his  comrades'  exclamations,  so  ab- 
sorbed was  he  in  profound  contemplation. 
The  object  that  he  was  examining  so  closely 
was  a  piece  of  coagulated  black  ashes,  bear- 
ing a  hollow  impression;  one  would  have 
said  that  it  was  a  fragment  of  the  mould  of 
a  statue,  broken  in  the  casting;  the  trained 
eye  of  an  artist  would  easily  have  recognised 
the  curve  of  a  beautiful  breast  and  of  flanks 
as  faultless  in  outline  as  those  of  a  Greek 
statue.  Every  one  knows,  and  the  com- 
monest traveller's  guide  will  tell  you,  that  the 
lava,  cooling  about  a  woman's  body,  had  per- 
petuated its  charming  contours.  Thanks  to 
the  caprice  of  an  eruption  which  destroyed 
four  cities,  that  noble  form,  fallen  into  dust 
nearly  two  thousand  years  ago,  has  come 
down  to  us;  the  rounded  outline  of  a  breast 
has.  lived  through  ages,  when  so  many  van- 
ished empires  have  left  no  trace  at  all!  That 
imprint  of  beauty,  made  by  chance  upon  the 
scoria  of  a  volcano,  has  not  been  effaced. 

[106] 


Arria  Marcella 


Seeing  that  he  persisted  in  his  contempla- 
tion, Octavian's  two  friends  walked  towards 
him,  and  Max,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder, 
made  him  start  like  a  man  surprised  in  a 
secret.  Evidently  Octavian  had  heard  neither 
Max  nor  Fabio  approaching. 

"Come,  Octavian,"  said  Max,  "don't  stand 
like  this,  whole  hours  in  front  of  every  case, 
or  we  shall  miss  the  train,  and  shall  not  see 
Pompeii  to-day." 

"What  on  earth  is  the  fellow  looking  at?" 
added  Fabio,  who  had  drawn  near.  "Ah! 
the  imprint  found  in  the  house  of  Arrius 
Diomedes";  and  he  cast  a  rapid  and  peculiar 
glance  at  Octavian. 

Octavian  blushed  slightly,  took  Max's  arm, 
and  the  visit  came  to  an  end  without  other 
incidents.  On  leaving  the  Studj,  the  three 
friends  entered  a  corricolo  and  were  driven 
to  the  railway  station.  The  corricolo,  with 
its  great  red  wheels,  its  seat  studded  with 
copper  nails,  its  thin  but  high-spirited  horse, 
harnessed  like  a  Spanish  mule,  and  galloping 

(107] 


Theophile  Gautier 


over  the  broad  flagstones  of  lava,  is  too  fa- 
miliar for  any  description  of  it  to  be  needed 
here;  moreover,  we  are  not  writing  impres- 
sions of  a  trip  to  Naples,  but  the  simple  nar- 
rative of  a  strange  and  incredible,  but  strictly 
true,  adventure. 

The  railway  to  Pompeii  skirts  the  sea  almost 
all  the  way,  and  the  long  curls  of  foam  break 
upon  a  blackish  sand  resembling  sifted  char- 
coal. The  shore  is  in  fact  formed  of  streams 
of  lava  and  volcanic  ashes,  and  produces,  by 
reason  of  its  dark  hue,  a  striking  contrast  to 
the  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  blue  of  the  water; 
amid  all  that  brilliancy,  the  land  alone  seems 
to  retain  a  shadow. 

The  villages  which  one  passes  through  or 
skirts  —  Portici,  made  famous  by  M.  Auber's 
opera,  Resina,  Torre  del  Greco,  Torre  dell'- 
Annunziata,  whose  houses  with  arcades  and 
terraced  roofs  one  sees  in  passing  —  have, 
despite  the  glare  of  the  sun  and  the  southern 
whitewash,  a  gloomy  and  grimy  aspect,  like 
Manchester    and    Birmingham;  the    dust    is 

1108J 


Arria  Marcella 


black,  and  an  impalpable  soot  clings  to  every- 
thing; you  realise  that  the  mighty  forge  of 
Vesuvius  is  panting  and  smoking  a  few  steps 
away. 

The  three  friends  alighted  at  the  Pompeii 
station,  laughing  among  themselves  at  the 
mixture  of  antique  and  modern  which  those 
words,  "  Pompeii  Station,"  naturally  bring  to 
the  mind.  A  Graeco-Roman  city  and  a  rail- 
way terminus! 

They  crossed  the  field  planted  with  cotton- 
trees,  about  which  white  tufts  were  fluttering, 
which  separates  the  railway  from  the  site  of 
the  disinterred  city;  and  they  took  a  guide  at 
the  inn  built  outside  the  former  ramparts,  or 
to  speak  more  accurately,  a  guide  took  them; 
a  calamity  which  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  in 
Italy. 

It  was  one  of  those  lovely  days  which  are 
so  common  in  Naples,  when,  by  virtue  of  the 
brilliancy  of  the  sunlight  and  the  transparency 
of  the  air,  objects  assume  hues  which  seem 
fabulous   in   the   north,  and   seem   rather  to 

1109) 


Thdophile  Gautier 


belong  to  the  world  of  dreams  than  to  the 
world  of  reality.  Whoever  has  once  seen 
that  gold  and  azure  light  carries  away  to  his 
misty  home  an  incurable  homesickness  for  it. 
The  resuscitated  city,  having  shaken  off  a 
corner  of  its  winding-sheet  of  ashes,  stood 
forth  with  its  innumerable  details,  beneath  a 
blinding  glare.  In  the  background  rose  the 
cone  of  Vesuvius,  furrowed  with  streaks  of 
blue,  pink,  and  violet  lava,  gilded  by  the  sun. 
A  light  mist,  almost  imperceptible  in  the 
glare,  formed  a  hood  for  the  crest  of  the 
mountain;  at  first  one  might  have  taken  it 
for  one  of  those  clouds  which,  even  in  the 
loveliest  weather,  blot  out  the  brow  of  lofty 
peaks.  On  looking  more  closely,  one  saw 
slender  threads  of  white  vapour  emerge  from 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  as  through  the  holes 
of  a  colander,  and  unite  in  a  light  smoke. 
The  volcano,  in  a  pleasant  humour  that  day, 
was  placidly  smoking  its  pipe,  and  save  for 
the  example  of  Pompeii  buried  at  its  feet,  one 
would  not  have  believed  it  to  be  of  a  more 

1110] 


Arria  Marcella 


savage  disposition  than  Montmartre.  On  the 
other  side  fair  hills,  with  outlines  voluptuously 
undulating  like  the  hips  of  a  woman,  barred 
the  horizon;  and  farther  away  the  sea,  that  in 
other  days  bore  biremes  and  triremes  under 
the  ramparts  of  the  city,  extended  its  azure 
boundary. 

The  aspect  of  Pompeii  is  most  surprising; 
that  abrupt  backward  leap  of  nineteen  cent- 
uries astonishes  even  the  prosaic  and  the  least 
intelligent  natures;  two  steps  take  you  from 
antique  to  modern  life,  from  Christianity  to 
paganism;  and  so,  when  the  three  friends  saw 
those  streets,  where  the  forms  of  a  vanished 
existence  are  preserved  intact,  they  were  con- 
scious, although  prepared  in  a  measure  by 
books  and  pictures,  of  an  impression  as 
strange  as  it  was  profound.  Octavian  espe- 
cially seemed  stupefied,  and  followed  the 
guide  mechanically  with  the  step  of  a  sleep- 
walker, paying  no  heed  to  the  monotonous 
catalogue,  learned  by  heart,  which  that  worthy 

recited  like  a  lesson. 

[Ill] 


Theophile  Gautier 


He  gazed  with  a  startled  eye  at  the  waggon- 
ruts  in  the  cyclopean  pavement  of  the  streets, 
which  seem  to  date  from  yesterday,  the 
impression  is  so  fresh;  at  the  inscriptions 
traced  in  red  letters,  in  a  running  hand,  on 
the  walls:  advertisements  of  plays,  of  houses 
to  let,  votive  formulas,  signs,  announcements 
of  all  sorts;  as  curious  and  interesting  as  a 
blank  wall  of  Paris,  discovered  two  thousand 
years  hence,  with  its  advertisements  and  its 
placards,  would  be  to  the  unknown  people 
of  the  future;  the  houses  with  sunken  roofs, 
allowing  the  eye  to  grasp  all  the  household 
secrets,  all  those  domestic  details  which  his- 
torians neglect  and  the  secret  of  which  civil- 
isations bear  away  with  them ;  those  fountains, 
hardly  dry;  that  forum,  surprised  by  the 
catastrophe  in  the  midst  of  repairs,  its  pillars 
and  architraves,  all  hewn  and  carved,  waiting 
in  all  their  purity  of  curve  and  angle  to  be  put 
in  place;  the  temples  consecrated  to  gods  now 
mythological,  but  who  then  had  no  unbeliev- 
ers; the  shops  where  only  the  tradesman  is 

1112] 


Arria  Marcella 


wanting;  the  wine-shops  where  the  circular 
stain  left  by  the  drinker's  glass  may  yet  be 
seen  on  the  marble;  the  barracks,  with  pillars 
painted  with  ochre  and  red  lead,  upon  which 
the  soldiers  have  scratched  caricatures  of  men 
in  combat;  and  the  theatres  for  the  drama  and 
for  concerts,  placed  side  by  side,  which  might 
resume  their  performances,  were  it  not  that 
the  troupes  which  acted  there,  now  reduced 
to  the  state  of  clay,  are  engaged  perhaps  in 
closing  the  bung-hole  of  a  beer-cask,  or  stop- 
ping a  crevice  in  a  wall,  like  the  dust  of  Alex- 
ander and  Caesar,  according  to  the  melancholy 
reflection  of  Hamlet. 

Fabio  mounted  the  stage  of  the  tragic 
theatre,  while  Octavian  and  Max  climbed  to 
the  highest  bench;  and  there  he  began  to 
declaim  with  abundant  gestures  such  bits  of 
poetry  as  came  into  his  head,  to  the  great 
alarm  of  the  lizards,  which  scattered  hither 
and  thither,  with  quivering  tails,  and  hid  in 
the  crevices  of  the  ruined  walls;  and  although 
the  vessels  of  brass  or  earth,  whose  purpose 

•  ("8] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


was  to  repeat  the  sounds,  no  longer  existed, 
his  voice  rang  out  none  the  less  full  and 
vibrant. 

Then  the  guide  led  them  across  the  tilled 
lands  which  cover  those  portions  of  Pompeii 
which  are  still  buried,  to  the  amphitheatre  at 
the  other  end  of  the  city.  They  walked 
beneath  the  trees  whose  roots  forced  their 
way  through  the  roofs  of  buried  buildings, 
loosened  the  tiles,  split  the  ceilings,  dislodged 
the  pillars;  and  they  passed  through  those 
fields  where  commonplace  vegetables  sprout 
above  marvels  of  art,  material  tokens  of  the 
oblivion  which  time  spreads  over  the  loveliest 
things. 

The  amphitheatre  did  not  surprise  them. 
They  had  seen  the  one  at  Verona,  which 
is  larger  and  as  well  preserved,  and  they  were 
as  familiar  with  the  arrangement  of  ancient 
arenas  as  with  that  of  the  scenes  of  bull-fights 
in  Spain,  which  resemble  them  much,  save 
in  solidity  of  construction  and  beauty  of 
materials. 

(mi 


Arria  Marcella 


So  they  retraced  their  steps,  and  tJKing  a 
cross-street  reached  the  Street  of  Fortune, 
listening  with  inattentive  ear  to  the  guide, 
who,  as  he  passed  each  house,  pointed  it  out 
by  the  name  it  was  given  at  the  time  of 
its  discovery,  after  some  characteristic  pecu- 
liarity: The  House  of  the  Bronze  Bull,  the 
House  of  the  Faun,  the  House  of  the  Ship, 
the  Temple  of  Fortune,  the  House  of  Meleager, 
the  Tavern  of  Fortune  at  the  corner  of  the 
Consular  Street,  the  Academy  of  Music,  the 
Public  Market,  the  Pharmacy,  the  Surgeon's 
Shop,  the  Custom-House,  the  Abode  of  the 
Vestals,  the  Inn  of  Albinus,  the  Thermopo- 
lium,  and  so  on,  to  the  gate  leading  to  the 
Road  of  the  Tombs. 

That  brick  gate,  covered  with  statues,  and 
entirely  denuded  of  ornamentation,  has  in  its 
inner  arch  two  deep  grooves  intended  for  the 
raising  and  lowering  of  a  portcullis,  like  a 
donjon  of  the  Middle  Ages,  to  which  one 
might  well  have  supposed  that  that  method 
of  defence  was  peculiar. 

[115] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


"Who  would  have  expected,"  said  Max 
to  his  friends,  "to  find  Pompeii,  the  Graeco- 
Latin  city,  protected  by  a  device  so  romantic- 
ally Gothic  ?  Can  you  imagine  a  belated 
Roman  knight  blowing  his  horn  outside  this 
gate,  as  a  signal  for  the  portcullis  to  be  lifted, 
like  a  page  of  the  fifteenth  century  ?" 

"There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun," 
replied  Fabio;  "and  even  that  aphorism 
itself  is  not  new,  as  it  was  formulated  by 
Solomon." 

"Perhaps  there  is  something  new  under 
the  moon!  "  suggested  Octavian,  smiling  with 
melancholy  irony. 

"My  dear  Octavian,"  said  Max,  who  dur- 
ing this  brief  conversation  had  stopped  be- 
fore an  inscription  written  in  red  chalk  on 
the  outer  wall,  "would  you  like  to  see  a 
gladiatorial  combat?  Here  are  the  notices: 
'Combat  and  hunt  on  the  fifth  day  of  the 
nones  of  April;  poles  will  be  erected;  twenty 
pairs  of  gladiators  will  fight  on  the  nones ';  and 
if  you  have  any  fear  for  the  whiteness  of  your 

11161 


Arria  Marcella 


complexion,  set  your  mind  at  rest,  for  sails 
will  be  stretched;  unless  you  prefer  to  go  to 
the  amphitheatre  early,  for  these  fellows  are 
to  cut  one  another's  throats  in  the  morning  — 
matutini  erunt ;  nothing  could  be  more  con- 
siderate." 

Chatting  thus,  the  three  friends  followed 
that  sepulchre-fringed  road  which,  according 
to  our  modern  ideas,  would  be  a  lugubrious 
promenade  for  a  city,  but  which  did  not  pre- 
sent the  same  melancholy  meaning  to  the 
ancients,  whose  tombs  contained,  instead  of 
ghastly  dead  bodies,  only  a  pinch  of  ashes,  an 
abstract  idea  of  death.  Art  beautified  these 
last  resting-places,  and,  as  Goethe  says,  the 
pagan  decorated  sarcophagi  and  urns  with 
images  of  life. 

That  doubtless  was  the  reason  that  Max 
and  Fabio  inspected  with  light-hearted  curi- 
osity and  a  joyous  plenitude  of  life,  which 
they  would  not  have  had  in  a  Christian  ceme- 
tery, those  funeral  monuments  so  gaily  gilded 
by  the  sun,  which,  placed  along  the  roadside, 

tllTJ 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


seemed  still  to  be  related  to  life,  and  in- 
spired none  of  that  chill  repulsion,  none  of 
that  fantastic  terror  which  our  gloomy  places 
of  burial  arouse.  They  paused  before  the 
tomb  of  Mammia,  the  public  priestess,  near 
which  a  tree  has  sprung  up,  a  cypress  or  a 
willow;  they  seated  themselves  in  the  semi- 
circle of  the  triclinium,  set  apart  for  funeral 
banquets,  laughing  like  heirs;  they  read,  with 
many  a  jest,  the  epitaphs  of  Nevoleia,  of 
Labeon,  and  of  the  Arria  family;  followed  by 
Octavian,  who  seemed  more  touched  than  his 
heedless  companions  by  the  fate  of  those  dead 
of  two  thousand  years  ago. 

Thus  they  reached  the  villa  of  Arrius  Dio- 
medes,  one  of  the  most  extensive  dwelling- 
houses  in  Pompeii.  They  went  up  to  it  by 
brick  steps,  and  when  they  had  passed  through 
the  gate  flanked  by  two  small  pillars  at  the 
sides,  they  found  themselves  in  a  courtyard, 
like  the  patio  which  forms  the  centre  of 
Spanish  and  Moorish  houses,  and  which  the 
ancients  called  the  impluvium,  or  the  cavcB- 

[118] 


Arria  Marcella 


dium;  fourteen  pillars,  of  brick  covered  with 
stucco,  formed  a  portico  or  covered  peristyle 
on  all  four  sides,  like  the  cloister  of  a  convent; 
beneath  it  one  could  walk  without  fear  of  the 
rain.  The  pavement  of  the  courtyard  was  a 
mosaic  of  brick  and  white  marble,  the  effect 
of  which  was  soft  and  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
In  the  centre  a  four-sided  marble  basin,  which 
still  exists,  received  the  rain-water  which 
dripped  from  the  portico.  It  produces  a 
strange  effect  to  enter  thus  the  life  of  olden 
times,  and  to  tread  with  patent  leathers  marble 
pavements  worn  by  the  sandals  and  buskins  of 
the  contemporaries  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius. 
The  guide  led  them  through  the  exedra,  or 
summer  parlour,  open  towards  the  sea  to  admit 
the  cool  breezes,  it  was  there  that  they  re- 
ceived guests,  and  took  their  siesta  during 
those  burning  hours  when  the  south  wind 
blew  from  Africa,  laden  with  languor  and 
tempest.  He  took  them  into  the  basilica,  a 
long  open  gallery  which  furnished  light  to 
the  apartments,  and  where  visitors  and  clients 

1119] 


Th6ophile  Gautier 


waited  for  the  nomenclator  to  summon  them; 
then  he  led  them  out  on  the  white  marble 
terrace,  whence  there  was  a  prospect  of  green 
gardens  and  blue  sea;  then  he  showed  them 
the  nymphceum,  or  baths,  with  its  walls 
painted  yellow,  its  stucco  pillars,  its  mosaic 
pavement,  and  its  marble  tub,  which  received 
so  many  lovely  bodies  now  vanished  like 
ghosts;  the  cuhiculum,  the  scene  of  so  many 
dreams  that  flitted  from  the  Ivory  Gate,  with 
its  alcoves  hollowed  out  of  the  wall  and 
closed  by  a  conopeum,  or  curtain,  whose 
bronze  rings  still  lay  on  the  ground;  the 
recreation-room;  the  chapel  of  the  household 
gods;  the  cabinet  of  archives;  the  library; 
the  gallery  of  pictures;  the  gyneceum,  or  wo- 
men's apartment,  consisting  of  small,  partly 
ruined  rooms,  the  walls  of  which  retain  traces 
of  paintings  and  arabesques,  like  cheeks  from 
which  the  rouge  has  been  imperfectly  re- 
moved. 

This  inspection  concluded,  they  went  down 
to  the  lower  floor,  for  the  ground  is  much 

[120] 


Arria  Marcella 


lower  towards  the  garden  than  towards  the 
Street  of  the  Tombs;  they  passed  through 
eight  rooms  painted  in  antique  red,  one  of 
which  had  recesses  in  the  walls,  such  as  we 
see  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Hall  of  the  Am- 
bassadors at  the  Alhambra;  and  they  ar- 
rived at  last  at  a  sort  of  cellar,  the  use  of 
which  was  clearly  indicated  by  the  sight  of 
eight  earthen  amphorae  propped  against  the 
wall,  which  doubtless  were  once  perfumed, 
like  the  Odes  of  Horace,  with  Cretan  wine, 
Falernian,  and  Massican. 

A  bright  sunbeam  entered  through  a  small 
air-hole,  half  choked  by  nettles,  whose  leaves, 
pierced  with  light,  it  changed  into  emeralds 
and  topazes;  and  that  cheerful  touch  of  nature 
smiled  opportunely  amid  the  depressing  gloom 
of  the  place. 

"  This,"  said  the  guide  in  his  droning  voice, 
the  tone  of  which  accorded  ill  with  his  words, 
"this  is  where  they  found,  among  seventeen 
skeletons,  that  of  the  lady  whose  mould  is 
shown  in  the  museum  at  Naples.     She    had 

[121] 


Th6ophile  Gautier 


gold  rings  on  her  fingers,  and  pieces  of  her 
fine  tunic  were  found  stuck  to  the  mass  of 
ashes  which  retained  her  shape." 

The  guide's  commonplace  phrases  deeply 
affected  Octavian.  He  asked  to  see  the  exact 
spot  where  those  precious  remains  had  been 
discovered;  and  if  he  had  not  been  restrained 
by  the  presence  of  his  friends,  he  would  have 
abandoned  himself  to  some  extravagant  out- 
burst; his  bosom  swelled,  his  eyes  glistened 
with  furtive  moisture;  that  catastrophe,  effaced 
by  twenty  centuries  of  oblivion,  affected  him 
like  a  disaster  of  recent  occurrence ;  the  death 
of  a  mistress  or  of  a  friend  would  not  have 
distressed  him  more,  and  a  tear  two  thousand 
years  late  fell,  while  Max  and  Fabio  had  their 
backs  turned,  upon  the  spot  where  that 
woman,  of  whom  he  felt  enamoured  with 
a  retrospective  love,  breathed  her  last,  suffo- 
cated by  the  hot  cinders  from  the  volcano. 

"Enough  of  this  archaeology  I  "  cried  Fabio ; 
"  we  don't  expect  to  write  a  dissertation  on  a 
jug  or  a  tile  of  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar,  in 

[122  J 


Arria  Marcella 


order  to  become  a  member  of  some  provincial 
academy;  these  classic  souvenirs  make  my 
stomach  hollow.  Let  us  go  to  dinner,  that 
is,  if  it  is  possible,  at  that  picturesque  inn, 
where  1  am  afraid  they  will  serve  us  with  fossil 
beefsteaks,  and  fresh  eggs  laid  prior  to  the 
death  of  Pliny." 

"I  will  not  exclaim  with  Boileau: 

"  A  fool  sometimes  delivers  wise  opinions," 

said  Max,  laughing,  "for  that  would  be  im- 
polite; but  your  idea  is  a  good  one.  It  would 
have  been  pleasanter,  however,  to  banquet 
here,  in  somebody's  triclinium,  reclining  in 
the  ancient  style,  and  served  by  slaves  like 
Lucullus  or  Trimalchio.  To  be  sure,  I  do  not 
see  many  oysters  from  Lake  Lucrinus;  the  tur- 
bot  and  mullet  from  the  Adriatic  are  wanting; 
there  is  no  Apulian  boar  in  the  market;  and 
the  loaves  and  the  honey-cakes  are  in  the 
museum  at  Naples,  as  hard  as  stones,  beside 
their  corroded  moulds;  raw  macaroni,  cov- 
ered with  caccia-cavallo,  detestable  as  it  may 


Theophile  Gautier 


be,  is  better  than  nothing.  What  does  dear 
Octavian  think  about  it  ?" 

Octavian,  who  deeply  regretted  that  he 
was  not  at  Pompeii  on  the  day  of  the  erup- 
tion of  Vesuvius,  to  save  the  lady  with 
the  gold  rings  and  thus  earn  her  love,  had 
not  heard  a  word  of  this  gastronomic  con- 
versation. Only  the  two  last  words  uttered 
by  Max  reached  his  ear,  and  as  he  had  no 
desire  to  start  a  discussion,  he  made  a  motion 
of  assent  at  random,  and  the  amicable  party 
walked  back  towards  the  inn,  along  the 
ramparts. 

The  table  was  set  beneath  the  open  porch, 
which  served  as  a  vestibule,  and  the  white- 
washed walls  of  which  were  decorated  with 
a  number  of  daubs  described  by  the  host  as 
the  work  of  Salvator  Rosa,  Espagnolet,  Mas- 
simo, and  other  famous  names  of  the  Nea- 
politan school,  whom  he  felt  called  upon  to 
extol. 

"My  venerable  host,"  said  Fabio,  "do  not 
display  your  eloquence  to  no  purpose.     We 

[184J 


Arria  Marcella 


are  not  Englishmen,  and  we  prefer  young 
girls  to  old  canvases.  Better  send  us  your 
wine-list  by  that  handsome  brunette  with  the 
velvety  eyes,  whom  I  saw  in  the  hall." 

The  host,  realising  that  they  did  not  belong 
to  the  gullible  class  of  Philistines  and  bour- 
geois, ceased  to  praise  his  picture-gallery  and 
turned  his  attention  to  his  cellar.  In  the  first 
place  he  had  all  the  wines  of  the  best  vin- 
tages: Chateau  Margaux,  Grand  Laffite  that 
had  made  a  voyage  to  the  Indies,  Sillery  de 
Moet,  Hochmeyer,  Scarlatti,  port  and  porter, 
ale  and  ginger  beer,  white  and  red  lacrymae 
Christi,  wine  of  Capri,  and  Falernian. 

"What!  you  have  Falernian,  you  villain, 
and  you  put  it  at  the  end  of  your  list; 
you  force  us  to  listen  to  an  intolerable  oeno- 
logical  litany!  "  said  Max,  leaping  at  the  inn- 
keeper's throat  with  a  gesture  of  comic  rage; 
"why,  have  you  no  appreciation  of  local 
colour  ?  are  you  altogether  unworthy  to 
live  in  this  antique  neighbourhood  ?  But 
is   your    Falernian   good  ?     Was    it   put    in 

[125] 


Theophile  Gautier 


amphorae  under  the  Consul  Plancus — Consule 
Planco?  " 

"I  don't  know  Plancus  the  Consul,  and 
my  wine  isn't  in  amphorae;  but  it's  old  and 
it  cost  ten  carlines  a  bottle,"  replied  the  host. 

The  sun  had  set  and  night  had  fallen,  a 
serene  and  transparent  night,  clearer,  beyond 
question,  than  midday  in  London;  the  earth 
had  an  azure  tint,  and  the  sky  silvery  re- 
flections of  indescribable  softness;  the  air  was 
so  calm  that  the  flame  of  the  candles  on  the 
table  did  not  even  flicker. 

A  young  boy,  playing  the  flute,  approached 
the  table  and  stood  before  the  three  guests, 
with  his  eyes  fastened  on  them,  in  the  attitude 
of  a  figure  in  a  bas-relief,  performing  upon  his 
sweet  and  melodious  instrument  one  of  those 
popular  ballads,  in  a  minor  key,  the  charm  of 
which  is  irresistible.  It  may  be  that  that  boy 
descended  in  a  direct  line  from  the  flute-player 
who  marched  before  Duilius. 

"Our  repast  is  set  forth  quite  in  antique 
style;  all  that  we   lack  is  some  Gaditanian 

[126] 


Arria  Marcella 


dancing-girls  and  some  wreaths  of  ivy," 
said  Fabio,  filling  a  large  glass  with  Falernian, 

"  1  feel  in  the  mood  for  reciting  Latin  quo- 
tations, like  afeuilleton  in  the  D^bats;  various 
strophes  of  odes  occur  to  me,"  said  Max. 

"Keep  them  to  yourself,"  cried  Octavian 
and  Fabio,  justly  alarmed;  "nothing  is  so 
indigestible  as  Latin  at  the  table." 

The  conversation  between  young  men,  who, 
cigars  in  mouth  and  elbows  on  the  table,  see 
before  them  a  number  of  empty  bottles,  espec- 
ially when  the  wine  is  heady,  is  certain  soon 
to  turn  upon  women.  Each  one  set  forth  his 
ideas,  of  which  the  following  is  a  summary: 

Fabio  cared  for  nothing  but  beauty  and 
youth.  Voluptuous  and  practical,  he  indulged 
in  no  illusions  and  cherished  no  prejudices. 
A  peasant  girl  was  as  attractive  to  him  as 
a  duchess,  so  long  as  she  was  lovely;  the 
body  appealed  to  him  more  than  the  clothes; 
he  laughed  heartily  at  certain  of  his  friends 
who  were  in  love  with  a  few  yards  of  silk  and 
lace,  and  said  that  it  would  be  more  rational 

[127] 


Theophile  Gautier 


to  be  enamoured  of  the  show-window  of 
a  marchand  des  noiiveauMs.  These  opinions, 
which  after  all  were  very  sensible  and  of 
which  he  made  no  secret,  caused  him  to  be 
looked  upon  as  an  eccentric  man. 

Max,  who  was  less  artistic  than  Fabio, 
cared  only  for  difficult  undertakings,  com- 
plicated intrigues;  he  sought  resistance  to 
overcome,  virtue  to  lead  astray,  and  carried 
on  a  love  affair  like  a  game  of  chess,  with 
moves  long  considered,  effects  held  in  sus- 
pense, surprises  and  stratagems  worthy  of 
Polybius.  In  the  salon  the  woman  who 
seemed  to  have  the  least  liking  for  him  was 
the  one  whom  he  would  select  as  the  object 
of  his  attacks;  to  force  her  to  pass  from 
aversion  to  love,  by  clever  transitions,  was 
to  him  a  delicious  pleasure;  to  impose  him- 
self upon  hearts  which  spurned  him,  to 
master  wills  that  fought  against  his  ascend- 
ancy, seemed  to  him  the  most  delightful  of 
triumphs.  Like  some  hunters,  who  scurry 
through  fields   and  woods    and    valleys,   in 

[1281 


Arria  Marcella 


rain  and  snow  and  sunshine,  with  excessive 
fatigue  and  an  ardour  which  nothing  cools, 
for  a  paltry  quarry  which  in  three  cases  out  of 
four  they  disdain  to  eat,  Max,  when  he  had 
overtaken  his  victim,  cared  no  more  about 
her,  and  would  set  out  in  quest  of  another 
almost  immediately. 

As  to  Octavian,  he  confessed  that  reality 
had  little  charm  for  him;  not  that  he  dreamed 
a  schoolboy's  dreams,  compounded  of  lilies 
and  roses,  like  one  of  Demoustier's  madrigals; 
but  there  were  too  many  prosaic  and  unpleas- 
ant details  about  all  beauty;  too  many  doting, 
decorated  fathers;  coquettish  mothers,  wear- 
ing natural  flowers  in  false  hair;  ruddy-faced 
cousins,  meditating  declarations  of  love;  or 
absurd  aunts,  in  love  with  little  dogs.  An 
engraving  in  aquatint,  after  Horace  Vernet  or 
Delaroche,  hanging  in  a  woman's  bedroom, 
was  sufficient  to  arrest  a  nascent  passion  in 
him.  Even  more  poetic  than  amorous,  he  re- 
quired a  terrace  on  Isola  Bella,  in  Lake  Mag- 
giore,  and  a  lovely  moonlight  night,  as  the 
9  [!•-»] 


Theophile  Gautier 


frame  for  an  assignation.  He  would  have 
liked  to  remove  his  love  affair  from  the  sur- 
roundings of  ordinary  life  and  transport  its 
scene  to  the  stars.  So  that  he  had  been 
seized  by  an  impossible  and  insane  passion 
for  all  the  great  female  types  preserved  by  art 
or  history,  one  after  another.  Like  Faust,  he 
had  loved  Helen;  and  he  would  have  liked 
the  undulations  of  the  ages  to  bring  to  him 
one  of  those  sublime  incarnations  of  human 
desires  and  dreams,  whose  shape,  invisible  to 
vulgar  eyes,  continues  to  exist  beyond  Space 
and  Time.  He  had  formed  for  himself  an 
imaginary  harem,  with  Semiramis,  Aspasia, 
Cleopatra,  Diane  de  Poitiers,  and  Joanna  of 
Aragon.  Sometimes,  too,  he  loved  statues; 
and  one  day  as  he  passed  the  Venus  of  Milo 
at  the  Louvre,  he  cried  out:  "Oh!  who  will 
restore  your  arms,  to  crush  me  against  your 
marble  breast?"  In  Rome  the  sight  of  a 
head  of  thick,  braided  hair,  exhumed  from  an 
ancient  tomb,  had  cast  him  into  a  strange 
ecstasy;   he  had  tried,  by  means  of  two  or 

I130J 


Arria  Marcella 


three  of  the  hairs,  obtained  by  bribing  the 
keeper,  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  som- 
nambulist of  great  power,  to  evoke  the  shade 
and  form  of  that  woman;  but  the  conducting 
fluid  had  evaporated  after  so  many  years,  and 
the  apparition  had  failed  to  come  forth  from 
everlasting  darkness. 

As  Fabio  had  guessed,  in  front  of  the  glass 
case  in  the  Studj,  the  impression  found  in 
the  cellar  of  Arrius  Diomedes's  villa  caused  in 
Octavian's  mind  insane  outreachings  towards 
a  retrospective  ideal;  he  tried  to  leave  time 
and  life  behind  him  and  to  transport  his  soul 
to  the  age  of  Titus. 

Max  and  Fabio  retired  to  their  apartment, 
and  as  their  heads  were  a  little  heavy  with 
the  classic  fumes  of  the  Falernian,  they  speedily 
fell  asleep.  Octavian,  who  had  often  left  his 
glass  full  before  him,  not  wishing  to  disturb 
by  vulgar  intoxication  the  poetic  drunkenness 
that  was  boiling  in  his  brain,  realised  by  the 
excited  state  of  his  nerves  that  sleep  would 
not  come  to  him;  and  he  left  the  inn,  walking 

tl31] 


Theophile  Gautier 


slowly,  to  cool  his  brow  and  to  calm  his 
thoughts  in  the  night  air. 

His  feet  unconsciously  bore  him  to  the  gate 
through  which  one  enters  the  dead  city;  he 
removed  the  wooden  bar  which  closed  the 
entrance  and  wandered  about  at  random  among 
the  ruins. 

The  moon  illuminated  with  its  white  light 
the  pale  houses,  dividing  the  streets  into  two 
bands,  of  silvery  light  and  bluish  shadow. 
That  nocturnal  daylight,  with  its  subdued 
tints,  concealed  the  dilapidation  of  the  build- 
ings. One  did  not  observe,  as  in  the  pitiless 
glare  of  the  sun,  the  broken  pillars,  the  house 
fronts  riddled  with  cracks,  the  roofs  crushed 
by  the  eruption;  the  lost  parts  were  sup- 
plied by  the  half-light;  and  a  sharp  ray,  like 
a  touch  of  sentiment  in  a  sketch  for  a  picture, 
represented  a  whole  crumbling  edifice.  The 
silent  genii  of  the  night  seemed  to  have  re- 
paired the  fossil  city  in  preparation  for  some 
representation  of  an  imaginary  life. 

At  times  Octavian  fancied  that  he  could  see 

[182] 


Arria  Marcella 


vague  human  forms  gliding  in  the  shadow; 
but  they  vanished  as  soon  as  they  reached 
the  lighted  spaces.  A  low  whispering,  an 
indefinite  hum,  floated  through  the  silence. 
Our  wanderer  attributed  this  at  first  to 
the  tluttering  in  his  eyes,  to  a  buzzing  in 
his  ears;  or  it  might  be  an  optical  illusion, 
a  sigh  of  the  sea-breeze,  or  the  flight  of  a 
lizard  or  a  snake  through  the  nettles;  for 
everything  lives  in  nature,  even  death;  every- 
thing makes  a  noise,  even  silence.  However, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sort  of  involuntary 
distress,  a  slight  shudder,  which  might  be 
caused  by  the  cold  night  air,  and  which  made 
his  skin  quiver.  He  turned  his  head  twice 
or  thrice;  he  no  longer  felt  alone  in  the 
deserted  city,  as  he  had  a  moment  before. 
Had  his  friends  had  the  same  idea  as  he, 
and  were  they  looking  for  him  among  the 
ruins  .^  Those  shapes  indistinctly  seen,  those 
vague  footsteps, —  were  they  Max  and  Fabio 
walking  and  chatting,  and  disappearing  at 
the  corner   of   a    street  ?     Octavian    realised 

[133] 


Th6ophile  Gautier 


from  his  perturbation  tiiat  that  natural  ex- 
planation was  not  true;  and  the  reasoning 
which  he  mentally  made  on  that  subject  did 
not  convince  him.  The  solitude  and  the 
shadow  were  peopled  with  invisible  beings, 
whom  he  disturbed;  he  had  fallen  upon  a 
mystery,  and  it  seemed  that  they  were  wait- 
ing for  him  to  go  before  beginning.  Such 
were  the  extravagant  ideas  which  passed 
through  his  brain,  and  which  assumed  much 
probability  from  the  hour,  the  place,  and  a 
thousand  alarming  details,  which  those  per- 
sons will  understand  who  have  been  in  some 
vast  ruin  at  night. 

As  he  passed  a  house  which  he  had  noticed 
during  the  day,  and  upon  which  the  moon 
shone  full,  he  saw,  in  absolutely  perfect  con- 
dition, a  portico  of  which  he  had  tried  in 
the  morning  to  restore  the  arrangement:  four 
Doric  columns,  fluted  half-way  to  the  top, 
their  shafts  enveloped  with  a  coat  of  red 
lead  as  with  purple  drapery,  upheld  a  mould- 
ing with  multicoloured  ornamentation,  which 


Arria  Marcella 


the  decorator  seemed  to  have  finished  yester- 
day; on  the  wall  beside  the  door  a  Laconian 
molossus,  painted  in  encaustic  and  accom- 
panied by  the  familiar  inscription,  Cave  canem. 
barked  at  the  moon  and  at  visitors  with  pic- 
tured fury.  On  the  mosaic  threshold  the  word 
Have,'  in  Oscan  and  Latin  characters,  saluted 
guests  with  its  friendly  syllables.  The  outer 
walls,  stained  with  ochre  and  red  lead,  had 
not  a  crack.  The  house  had  been  raised  a 
story,  and  the  tiled  roof,  with  bronze  acroteria 
placed  at  intervals,  projected  its  profile  un- 
impaired against  the  light  blue  expanse  of 
the  sky,  in  which  there  were  a  few  pale 
stars. 

This  extraordinary  restoration,  made  be- 
tween afternoon  and  evening  by  an  unknown 
architect,  puzzled  Octavian  greatly;  for  he 
was  sure  that  he  had  seen  that  house  in  a  de- 
plorable state  of  dilapidation  that  same  day. 
The    mysterious    reconstructor   had  worked 

'  Welcome.  The  Osci  were  a  people  in  Campania,  whose 
language  closely  resembled  Latin.— [Trans.] 

[135] 


Theophile   Gautier 


very  rapidly,  for  the  neighbouring  houses  had 
the  same  recent  and  new  appearance;  every 
pillar  had  its  capital;  not  a  stone,  not  a  brick, 
not  a  pellicle  of  stucco,  not  a  scale  of  paint  was 
lacking  on  the  gleaming  facades;  and  through 
the  openings  of  the  peristyles,  he  could  see 
about  the  marble  basin  of  the  cavcediiim  pink 
and  white  laurels,  myrtles,  and  pomegranates. 
All  the  historians  were  in  error;  the  eruption 
had  not  taken  place,  or  else  the  hand  of  time 
had  retrograded  twenty  hours,  of  a  century 
each,  upon  the  dial  of  Eternity! 

Octavian,  surprised  to  the  last  degree, 
wondered  whether  he  were  sleeping  on  his 
feet  and  walking  about  in  a  dream.  He 
questioned  himself  seriously  to  ascertain 
whether  madness  was  waving  its  hallucina- 
tions before  him;  but  he  was  forced  to  con- 
clude that  he  was  neither  asleep  nor  insane. 

A  singular  change  had  taken  place  in  the 
atmosphere;  vague  rose-tints  blended  by  vio- 
let gradations  with  the  azure  beams  of  the 
moon;   the   sky   became  lighter  around  the 


Arria  Marcella 


horizon;  one  would  have  said  that  the  day 
was  about  to  break.  Octavian  drew  his 
watch;  it  marked  midnight.  Fearing  that  it 
had  stopped,  he  pressed  the  repeating  spring; 
the  bell  rang  twelve  times;  it  was  surely 
midnight,  and  yet  the  light  constantly  in- 
creased, the  moon  faded  away  as  the  sky  be- 
came more  and  more  luminous.    The  sun  rose ! 

Thereupon  Octavian,  in  whose  mind  all 
ideas  of  time  were  hopelessly  confused,  was 
able  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  walk- 
ing, not  in  a  dead  Pompeii,  the  cold  corpse 
of  a  city  half  removed  from  its  winding-sheet, 
but  in  a  living,  young,  intact  Pompeii,  over 
which  the  torrents  of  burning  mud  from 
Vesuvius  had  never  flowed. 

An  inconceivable  miracle  had  transported 
him,  a  Frenchman  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
back  to  the  time  of  Titus,  not  in  spirit,  but  in 
reality;  or  else  had  brought  to  him,  from  the 
depths  of  the  past,  a  ruined  city  with  its 
vanished  people;  for  a  man  clothed  in  the 
ancient  fashion  came  out  of  a  house  near  by. 

[137] 


Th6ophile  Gautier 


This  man  had  short  hair  and  a  clean-shaven 
face,  a  brown  tunic  and  a  grayish  cloak,  the 
ends  of  which  were  caught  up  in  such  a  way 
as  not  to  impede  his  wall^;  he  was  walking 
rapidly,  almost  running,  and  passed  Octavian 
close  without  seeing  him.  A  basket  made  of 
spartum  hung  on  his  arm,  and  he  bent  his 
steps  toward  the  Forum  Nundinarium;  he 
was  a  slave,  some  Davus,'  going  to  market 
beyond  a  doubt. 

Octavian  heard  the  rumbling  of  wheels,  and 
an  ancient  cart,  drawn  by  white  oxen  and 
laden  with  vegetables,  turned  into  the  street. 
Beside  the  beasts  walked  a  drover,  with  bare 
legs  tanned  by  the  sun,  and  sandal-shod  feet, 
and  clad  in  a  sort  of  cotton  shirt  puffed  out  at 
the  belt;  a  conical  straw  hat,  fallen  behind  his 
back  and  held  by  a  strap  about  his  neck, 
allowed  his  face  to  be  seen  —  a  face  of  a  type 
unknown  to-day :  the  low  forehead  traversed 
by  hard  ridges,  the  hair  black  and  curly,  the 

'  A  name  frequently  given  to  slaves  in  the  comedies  of 
Terence,  etc. — [Trans.] 

Ciasj 


Arria  Marcella 


nose  straight,  the  eyes  as  placid  as  those  of 
his  oxen,  and  a  neck  like  that  of  a  rustic  Her- 
cules. He  gravely  touched  his  beasts  with 
the  goad,  with  a  statuesque  pose  that  would 
have  driven  Ingres  wild. 

The  drover  saw  Octavian  and  seemed  sur- 
prised, but  he  kept  on;  he  turned  his  head 
once,  unable  doubtless  to  understand  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  personage  who  seemed  so 
strange  to  him;  but,  in  his  tranquil,  rustic 
stupidity,  leaving  the  solution  of  the  enigma 
to  wiser  folk. 

Campanian  peasants  soon  appeared,  driving 
before  them  asses  laden  with  skins  of  wine 
and  tinkling  their  brazen  bells;  their  faces  dif- 
fered from  those  of  the  peasants  of  to-day  as 
a  medallion  does  from  a  sou. 

The  city  gradually  became  filled  with  peo- 
ple, like  one  of  those  panoramic  pictures,  un- 
inhabited at  first,  which  a  change  of  the  light 
enlivens  with  human  beings  hitherto  invisible. 

The  nature  of  Octavian's  sensations  had 
changed.     A  moment  before,  in  the  deceptive 


Theophile  Gautier 


shadows  of  the  night,  he  had  suffered  from 
that  discomfort  which  the  bravest  cannot  avoid 
amid  disquieting  and  abnormal  circumstances 
which  the  reason  cannot  explain.  His  vague 
terror  had  changed  to  profound  stupefaction; 
he  could  not  doubt  the  testimony  of  his 
senses,  their  perception  was  so  clear,  and  yet 
what  he  saw  was  absolutely  incredible.  Still 
unconvinced,  he  sought,  by  fixing  his  mind 
upon  trivial  but  real  details,  to  prove  to  him- 
self that  he  was  not  the  plaything  of  an  hal- 
lucination. They  were  not  phantoms  who 
were  passing  before  his  eyes,  for  the  bright 
light  of  the  sun  demonstrated  their  reality  be- 
yond question,  and  their  shadows,  lengthened 
by  the  morning  light,  were  projected  upon 
the  pavements  and  the  walls. 

Unable  to  understand  what  was  happening 
to  him,  Octavian,  enchanted  at  heart  to  have 
one  of  his  most  cherished  dreams  come  true, 
no  longer  fought  against  his  adventure;  he 
abandoned  himself  to  all  those  marvellous  hap- 
penings,   without   pretending  to   understand 

[140] 


Arria  Marcella 


them;  he  said  to  himself  that  since,  by  virtue 
of  some  mysterious  power,  he  was  permitted 
to  live  a  few  hours  in  an  age  long  vanished, 
he  would  not  waste  his  time  in  seeking  a 
solution  of  an  incomprehensible  problem;  and 
he  bravely  walked  on,  gazing  to  right  and  to 
left  at  the  spectacle  which  was  at  once  so  old 
and  so  new  to  him.  But  to  what  period  in 
the  life  of  Pompeii  had  he  been  transported? 
An  ocdile  inscription  engraved  upon  a  wall 
informed  him,  by  the  names  of  the  officials 
recorded,  that  it  was  the  beginning  of  the 
reign  of  Titus  —  about  the  year  79  of  our  era. 
An  idea  suddenly  passed  through  Octavian's 
mind:  the  woman,  the  impression  of  whose 
body  he  had  admired  at  the  museum  at  Naples, 
must  be  alive,  since  the  eruption  of  Vesuvius 
in  which  she  had  perished  had  taken  place 
on  the  twenty-fourth  of  August  in  that  very 
year;  and  so  he  might  find  her,  see  her,  speak 
to  her.  The  mad  longing  that  he  had  felt  at 
the  aspect  of  that  lava  moulded  upon  divine 
outlines   was    perhaps   to   be    gratified  ;    for 


Theophile  Gautier 


nothing  could  be  impossible  to  a  love  which 
had  had  the  power  to  make  time  go  back- 
ward, and  the  same  hour  to  pass  twice  through 
the  hour-glass  of  Eternity. 

While  Octavian  indulged  in  these  reflec- 
tions, lovely  maidens  went  to  the  fountains, 
holding  their  urns  steady  on  their  heads  with 
the  ends  of  their  white  fingers;  patricians  in 
white  togas  bordered  with  bands  of  purple, 
followed  by  their  procession  of  clients,  bent 
their  steps  towards  the  Forum.  Buyers 
crowded  around  the  booths,  all  designated  by 
carved  and  painted  signs,  and  recalling  by 
their  small  dimensions  the  Moorish  booths  in 
Algiers.  Above  most  of  these  booths,  a 
haughty  phallus  of  coloured  terra-cotta,  and 
the  inscription  Hie  habitat  Felicitas,  indicated 
superstitious  precautions  against  the  evil  eye; 
Octavian  even  noticed  one  shop  for  the  sale 
of  amulets,  the  counter  of  which  was  covered 
with  horns,  forked  branches  of  coral,  and 
little  figures  of  Priapus  in  gold,  such  as  we 
find  in  Naples  to-day,  as  a  protection  from  the 

[143] 


Arria  Marcella 


jettatura;  and  he  said  to  himself  that  a  super- 
stition outlives  a  religion. 

As  he  followed  the  sidewalk  which  lines 
each  street  in  Pompeii,  and  thus  deprives  the 
English  of  the  credit  of  that  convenient  inven- 
tion, Octavian  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
a  comely  young  man  of  about  his  own  age, 
dressed  in  a  saflfron-coloured  tunic,  with  a 
cloak  of  fine  white  linen,  as  soft  as  cashmere. 
The  aspect  of  Octavian,  with  his  horrible 
modern  hat  on  his  head,  squeezed  into  a 
scanty  black  coat,  his  legs  confined  in  trousers, 
and  his  feet  pinched  by  shining  boots,  seemed 
to  surprise  the  young  Pompeiian,  as  the  sight 
of  an  Iowa  Indian  or  a  Botocudo  on  Bou- 
levard de  Gand,  with  his  feathers,  his  necklace 
of  bear's-paws,  and  his  elaborate  tattooing, 
would  surprise  us.  As  he  was  a  well-bred 
young  man,  however,  he  did  not  burst  out 
laughing  in  Octavian's  face,  but  taking  pity 
on  that  poor  barbarian  astray  in  that  Graico- 
Roman  city,  he  said  to  him  in  a  sweet,  finely 

modulated  voice:  "  Advena.  salve  I  " 

luaj 


Theophile  Gautier 


Nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  that  a 
native  of  Pompeii  under  the  reign  of  the 
divine  Emperor  Titus,  most  puissant  and  most 
august,  should  express  himself  in  Latin;  and 
yet  Octavian  shuddered  when  he  heard  that 
dead  language  in  a  living  mouth.  Then  it 
was  that  he  congratulated  himself  that  he  had 
been  strong  in  Latin  prose,  and  had  won 
prizes  in  the  general  competition.  The  Latin 
taught  at  the  university  served  him  for  the 
first  time  on  this  occasion,  and  recalling  his 
class-room  memories,  he  replied  to  the  salute 
of  the  Pompeiian,  after  the  style  of  De  Viris 
Illustribus  and  Selectee  e  Profanis.  intelligibly 
enough,  but  with  a  Parisian  accent  which  made 
the  young  man  smile. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  easier  for  you  to  talk 
Greek,"  the  Pompeiian  said;  "  I  am  familiar 
with  that  language  too,  for  I  studied  at 
Athens." 

"I  know  even  less  Greek  than  Latin,"  re- 
plied Octavian;  "lam  from  the  country  of 
the  Gauls,  from  Paris,  from  Lutetia." 

[144] 


Arria   Marcella 


"I  know  that  country.  My  grandfather 
served  in  Gaul  under  the  great  Julius  Caesar. 
But  what  a  strange  costume  you  wear!  the 
Gauls  whom  I  have  seen  at  Rome  were  not 
thus  attired." 

Octavian  attempted  to  make  the  young 
Pompeiian  understand  that  twenty  centuries 
had  passed  since  the  conquest  of  Gaul  by 
Julius  Cxsar,  and  that  the  fashions  might 
well  have  changed;  but  he  "lost  his  Latin,"  ' 
and  to  tell  the  truth  that  was  no  great  loss. 

"My  name  is  Rufus  Holconius,  and  my 
house  is  yours,"  said  the  young  man;  "  unless 
you  prefer  the  freedom  of  the  tavern;  you 
can  be  very  comfortable  at  the  inn  of  Albinus, 
near  the  gate  of  the  suburb  of  Augustus  Felix, 
or  at  the  tavern  of  Sarinus,  son  of  Publius,  by 
the  second  tower;  but  if  you  wish,  I  will  be 
your  guide  in  this  city,  which  is  unfamiliar  to 
you.  Young  barbarian,  1  am  pleased  with 
you,   although    you    have   tried    to    play  on 

'  In  French,  an  idiomatic  phrase  meaning  to  waste  one's 
time,  to  take  pains  uselessly. — [Trans.] 
lo  [ 145  ] 


Theophile  Gautier 


my  credulity  by  pretending  that  the  Emperor 
Titus,  who  reigns  to-day,  has  been  dead  two 
thousand  years;  and  that  the  Nazarene,  whose 
villainous  sectaries,  smeared  with  pitch,  have 
illuminated  Nero's  gardens,  now  reigns  alone 
in  the  deserted  sky,  from  which  our  mighty 
gods  have  fallen.  By  Pollux!"  he  added,  as 
he  glanced  at  a  red  inscription  at  the  corner 
of  a  street,  "you  arrived  in  good  time,  for 
Plautus's  Casina,  recently  restored  to  the 
stage,  is  to  be  acted  to-day;  it  is  a  curious 
and  burlesque  comedy,  and  will  amuse  you, 
even  if  you  understand  only  the  pantomime. 
Come  with  me;  it  is  almost  time  for  the  play 
to  begin,  and  I  will  find  you  a  place  on  the 
benches  allotted  to  guests  and  foreigners." 

And  Rufus  Holconius  walked  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  small  comic  theatre  which  the 
three  friends  had  visited  during  the  day. 

The  Frenchman  and  the  citizen  of  Pompeii 
walked  through  the  Street  of  the  Fountain 
of  Abundance  and  the  Street  of  the  Theatres, 
passed  the  College  and  the  Temple  of  Isis, 

IU6] 


Arria  Marcella 


the  Studio  of  the  Sculptor,  and  entered  the 
Odeon  or  Comic  Theatre  by  a  lateral  passage. 
Thanks  to  the  mediation  of  Hoiconius,  Oc- 
tavian  obtained  a  seat  near  the  proscenium,  a 
place  corresponding  to  our  private  boxes 
which  front  upon  the  stage.  All  eyes  were 
immediately  turned  upon  him  with  good- 
natured  curiosity,  and  a  low  whispering  ran 
about  the  amphitheatre. 

The  play  had  not  yet  begun;  Octavian  took 
advantage  of  that  fact  to  look  about  the  hall. 
The  semicircular  benches,  terminating  on 
each  side  in  a  magnificent  lion's-paw  carved 
in  lava  from  Vesuvius,  began  at  an  empty 
space  corresponding  to  our  parterre,  but  much 
smaller,  and  paved  with  a  mosaic  of  Greek 
marbles;  each  bench  was  thus  longer  than 
the  one  in  front;  a  broader  bench,  at  intervals, 
formed  a  distinct  division,  and  four  staircases 
corresponding  to  the  four  entrances,  and 
ascending  from  the  base  to  the  top  of  the 
amphitheatre,  divided  it  into  five  wedge- 
shaped  portions   broader   at  the  top  than  at 

(ur) 


Theophile  Gautier 


the  bottom.  The  spectators,  armed  with 
their  tickets,  which  consisted  of  little  ivory 
blades  on  which  were  indicated  by  numbers 
the  passage,  the  division,  and  the  bench,  with 
the  title  of  the  play  to  be  performed  and  the 
name  of  its  author,  readily  found  their  places. 
Magistrates,  nobles,  married  men,  young  men, 
and  soldiers  with  their  gleaming  bronze 
helmets,  occupied  benches  by  themselves. 
An  admirable  spectacle  was  presented  by 
the  beautiful  togas,  and  great  white  cloaks, 
gracefully  draped,  displayed  on  the  first 
benches,  and  forming  a  striking  contrast  with 
the  varied  costumes  of  the  women,  who  sat 
above,  and  the  gray  cloaks  of  the  common 
people,  relegated  to  the  uppermost  benches, 
near  the  columns  which  supported  the  roof, 
and  between  which  could  be  seen  a  sky  of 
the  deepest  blue,  like  the  azure  field  of  the 
Panathenaea.  A  fine  rain,  scented  with  saf- 
fron, fell  from  the  flies  in  imperceptible  drops, 
and  perfumed  at  the  same  time  that  it  cooled 
the  air.     Octavian  thought  of  the  fetid  ema- 

[148] 


Arria  Marcella 


nations  which  vitiate  the  atmosphere  of  our 
theatres,  which  are  so  uncomfortable  that  one 
may  regard  them  as  places  of  torture;  and  he 
considered  that  civilisation  had  made  little 
progress. 

The  curtain,  supported  by  a  transverse  beam, 
disappeared  in  the  depths  of  the  orchestra; 
the  musicians  took  their  places  in  their  gallery, 
and  the  Prologue  appeared,  in  grotesque  garb, 
with  an  uncouth  masque  tltted  to  his  head 
like  a  helmet. 

The  Prologue,  after  saluting  the  audience 
and  calling  for  applause,  began  a  burlesque 
address: 

"The  old  plays  are  like  wine,  which  im- 
proves with  age,  and  the  Casina,  dear  to 
old  men,  should  be  no  less  so  to  the  young; 
all  may  find  amusement  in  it:  some  because 
they  are  familiar  with  it,  others  because 
they  are  not  familiar  with  it.  The  play  had 
been  carefully  remounted,  and  it  should 
be  listened  to  with  the  mind  free  from  all 
anxiety,  without   a   thought   of  debts  or  of 

[149] 


Theophile  Gautier 


creditors,  for  no  one  could  be  arrested  in  the 
theatre.  It  was  a  lucky  day,  the  weather 
was  fine,  and  the  halcyons  hovered  over  the 
Forum." 

Then  he  gave  an  analysis  of  the  comedy 
which  the  actors  were  about  to  present, 
with  a  minuteness  of  detail  which  proved 
that  surprise  counted  for  little  in  the  pleasure 
which  the  ancients  took  in  the  theatre; 
he  told  how  old  Stalino,  enamoured  of  his 
lovely  slave  Casina,  wished  to  marry  her  to 
his  farmer,  Olympio,  an  obliging  spouse, 
whose  place  he  would  take  on  the  wedding 
night;  and  how  Lycostrata,  Stalino's  wife,  to 
thwart  her  vicious  husband's  lust,  proposed 
to  unite  Casina  to  Chalinus,  the  esquire,  with 
the  idea  of  favouring  her  son's  passion;  and 
lastly  how  Stalino,  completely  deceived,  mis- 
took a  young  male  slave,  in  disguise,  for 
Casina,  who,  being  recognised  as  free  and  of 
noble  birth,  marries  her  young  master,  whom 
she  loves  and  by  whom  she  is  beloved. 

The  young  Frenchman  gazed  absent-mind- 

[160] 


Arria  Marcella 


ediy  at  the  actors  who,  with  their  masques 
with  bronze  mouths,  laboured  manfully  on 
the  stage;  the  slaves  ran  hither  and  thither  to 
simulate  zeal;  the  old  man  shook  his  head 
and  held  out  his  trembling  hands;  the  mother, 
loud  of  speech,  with  a  surly  and  disdainful 
mien,  strutted  in  her  importance  and  quar- 
relled with  her  husband,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  the  audience.  All  these  characters 
made  their  entrances  and  exits  through  three 
doors  in  the  wall  at  the  rear,  which  com- 
municated with  the  actors'  greenroom.  Sta- 
lino's  house  occupied  one  corner  of  the  stage, 
and  that  of  his  old  friend  Alcesimus  was 
opposite;  this  scenery,  although  very  well 
painted,  represented  rather  the  idea  of  a  place 
than  the  place  itself,  like  most  of  the  vague 
scenery  of  the  classic  stage. 

When  the  nuptial  procession  escorting  the 
false  Casina  came  upon  the  stage,  an  immense 
roar  of  laughter,  like  that  which  Homer 
ascribes  to  the  gods,  arose  from  the  benches 
of  the  amphitheatre,  and  thunders  of  applause 

( i'>i ) 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


woke  the  echoes  of  the  enclosure;  but  Oc- 
tavian  had  ceased  to  look  or  to  listen. 

On  the  benches  allotted  to  the  women,  he 
had  noticed  a  creature  of  marvellous  beauty. 
At  that  moment,  the  lovely  faces  which  had 
attracted  his  eyes  disappeared  like  the  stars 
before  the  dawn;  everything  vanished  as  in  a 
dream ;  a  mist  blotted  out  the  benches  swarm- 
ing with  people,  and  the  shrill  voices  of  the 
actors  seemed  to  die  away  in  measureless 
distance. 

He  had  received  a  sort  of  electric  shock  at 
the  heart,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  sparks 
gushed  from  his  breast  when  that  woman's 
eyes  turned  towards  him. 

She  was  dark  and  pale;  her  wavy,  curling 
hair,  black  as  the  tresses  of  Night,  was  raised 
slightly  above  the  temples,  after  the  Grecian 
fashion;  and  in  her  pallid  face  gleamed  soft, 
melancholy  eyes,  laden  with  an  indefinable  ex- 
pression of  voluptuous  sadness  and  passionate 
ennui;  her  mouth,  disdainfully  curled  at  the 
corners,  protested  by  the  living  ardour  of  its 

[152] 


Arria  Marcella 


ruddy  purple  against  the  tranquil  whiteness  of 
the  masque;  her  neck  presented  those  pure 
and  beautiful  lines  which  are  found  to-day 
only  in  statues.  Her  arms  were  bare  to  the 
shoulders;  and  from  the  points  of  her  superb 
breasts,  raising  her  dark  red  tunic,  ran  two 
deep  furrows  which  seemed  to  have  been  hol- 
lowed out  of  marble  by  Phidias  or  Cleomenes. 
The  sight  of  that  bosom,  so  pure  in  its  con- 
tour, so  faultless  in  its  curve,  magnetically 
affected  Octavian;  it  seemed  to  him  that  those 
rounded  forms  were  perfectly  adapted  to  the 
impression  at  the  museum  at  Naples,  which 
had  cast  him  into  such  an  impassioned  reverie; 
and  a  voice  cried  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  that 
that  woman  was  certainly  the  woman  suffo- 
cated by  the  ashes  from  Vesuvius  in  the  villa 
of  Arrius  Diomedes.  By  what  miracle  did  he 
see  her  in  life,  attending  the  performance  of 
Casiiia?  He  did  not  try  to  understand;  in- 
deed, how  was  he  there  himself?  He  accepted 
her  presence  as  in  a  dream  we  accept  the 
intervention  of  persons  long  dead,   who  act 


Thdophile  Gautier 


none  the  less  with  every  appearance  of  life. 
Moreover,  his  excitement  made  reasoning  im- 
possible. For  him  the  wheel  of  time  had  left 
its  rut,  and  his  victorious  desire  selected  its 
place  among  the  ages  that  had  vanished.  He 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  chimera, 
one  of  the  most  intangible,  a  retrospective 
chimera.  His  life  was  filled  to  overflowing  at 
a  single  stroke. 

As  he  looked  upon  that  face,  so  calm  yet  so 
impassioned,  so  cold  yet  so  ardent,  so  dead 
yet  so  full  of  life,  he  realised  that  he  had 
before  him  his  first  and  his  last  love,  his  cup 
of  supreme  ecstasy;  he  felt  the  memories  of 
all  the  women  whom  he  had  thought  that  he 
loved  vanish  like  impalpable  shadows,  while 
his  heart  became  void  of  every  previous 
emotion.     The  past  disappeared. 

Meanwhile  the  fair  Pompeiian,  resting  her 
chin  on  the  palm  of  her  hand,  flashed  at 
Octavian,  while  seeming  to  be  intent  upon 
the  stage,  a  velvety  glance  from  her  nocturnal 
eyes,  and  that  glance  reached  him  as  heavy 


Arria  Marcella 


and  burning  as  a  jet  of  molten  lead.  Then 
she  leaned  over  and  whispered  in  the  ear  of  a 
girl  who  sat  beside  her. 

The  performance  came  to  an  end;  the  crowd 
poured  out  through  the  exits;  Octavian,  dis- 
daining the  services  of  his  guide  Holconius, 
rushed  out  through  the  first  passage  that  pre- 
sented itself.  He  had  hardly  reached  the  door 
when  a  hand  rested  on  his  arm,  and  a  female 
voice  said  to  him  in  an  undertone,  but  in  such 
wise  that  he  did  not  lose  a  single  word: 

"lam  Tyche  Novoleia,  purveyor  to  the 
pleasures  of  Arria  Marcella,  daughter  of  Arrius 
Diomedes;  my  mistress  loves  you;  follow 
me." 

Arria  Marcella  had  entered  her  litter,  which 
was  borne  by  four  muscular  Syrian  slaves, 
naked  to  the  waist,  whose  bronze  torsos 
gleamed  like  mirrors  in  the  sunlight.  The 
curtain  of  the  litter  was  drawn  aside,  and  a 
white  hand,  starred  with  rings,  made  a  friendly 
sign  to  Octavian,  as  if  to  confirm  the  servant's 
words.    The  purple  fold  fell  back  and  the  litter 

[155] 


Theophile  Gautier 


moved  away  to  the  rhythmic  step  of  the 
slaves. 

Tyche  led  Octavian  by  a  devious  path;  she 
crossed  the  streets,  her  feet  barely  touching 
the  stones  which  joined  the  sidewalks  and 
between  which  the  wheels  of  the  chariots 
rolled;  she  glided  through  the  labyrinth  with 
the  unerring  precision  born  of  familiarity  with 
the  city.  Octavian  noticed  that  he  was  passing 
through  those  parts  of  Pompeii  which  recent 
investigations  have  not  laid  bare,  and  which 
were  consequently  unfamiliar  to  him.  This 
strange  circumstance  among  so  many  others 
did  not  surprise  him.  He  had  decided  to  be 
surprised  by  nothing.  In  all  that  archaic 
phantasmagoria,  which  would  have  driven  an 
antiquary  mad  with  joy,  he  saw  naught  but  the 
deep,  black  eyes  of  Arria  Marcella,  and  that  su- 
perb bosom,  triumphant  over  time,  which  even 
universal  destruction  had  chosen  to  preserve. 

They  reached  a  secret  door,  which  opened 
and  closed  instantly,  and  Octavian  found  him- 
self in  a  courtyard  surrounded  by  pillars  of 

[156] 


Arria  Marcella 


Grecian  marble  of  the  Ionic  order,  painted 
half-way  to  the  top  a  deep  yellow  colour,  and 
with  capitals  decorated  with  red  and  blue 
reliefs;  garlands  of  birth  wort,  with  its  broad 
green  leaves,  hung  from  the  protuberances  of 
the  architecture,  in  the  shape  of  a  heart,  like  a 
natural  arabesque;  and  beside  a  basin  engirt 
with  plants  a  red  flamingo  stood  on  one  leg,  a 
plume-flower  among  natural  flowers. 

The  walls  were  decorated  with  frescoed 
panels,  representing  architectural  fancies  and 
imaginary  landscapes.  Octavian  saw  all  these 
details  with  one  swift  glance,  for  Tyche  de- 
livered him  into  the  hands  of  the  slaves  of  the 
baths,  who  compelled  his  impatience  to  sub- 
mit to  all  the  refinements  of  the  thermae  of  the 
ancients.  After  passing  through  the  different 
degrees  of  vapor-heat,  after  being  tortured 
with  the  rough  brush  of  the  rubber,  and 
deluged  with  cosmetics  and  perfumed  oils,  he 
was  reclothed  in  a  white  tunic ;  he  found  at  the 
other  door  Tyche,  who  took  his  hand  and  led 
him  into  another  room  elaborately  decorated. 

1157] 


Theophile  Gautier 


On  the  ceiling  were  painted,  with  a  marvel- 
lous perfection  of  design,  a  brilliancy  of  colour- 
ing, and  a  freedom  of  touch  which  denoted  the 
great  master  and  not  the  simple  decorator, 
Mars,  Venus,  and  Cupid;  a  frieze  of  deer, 
hares,  and  birds  playing  among  the  foliage  sur- 
mounted a  wainscoting  of  cipollino  marble; 
the  mosaic  of  the  floor,  a  wonderful  piece  of 
work,  executed  perhaps  by  the  hand  of 
Sosimus  of  Pergamus,  represented  the  rem- 
nants of  a  banquet,  delineated  with  a  skill 
that  created  a  complete  illusion. 

At  the  end  of  the  room,  on  a  biclinium,  or 
couch  with  two  places,  Arria  Marcella  reclined 
in  a  voluptuous  and  serene  attitude,  which 
recalled  the  reclining  woman  of  Phidias,  on  the 
pediment  of  the  Parthenon;  her  shoes,  em- 
broidered with  pearls,  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch,  and  her  beautiful  bare  foot,  purer  and 
whiter  than  marble,  peeped  out  beneath  a 
light  coverlet  of  byssus,  which  was  thrown 
over  her. 

Earrings  made  in  the  shape   of  a  pair  of 

[158] 


Arria  Marcella 


balances,  and  bearing  pearls  in  each  scale, 
trembled  in  the  light  beside  her  pale  cheeks; 
a  necklace  of  gold  balls,  from  which  were 
suspended  pear-shaped  brilliants,  encircled 
her  breast,  left  partly  bare  by  the  carelessly 
arranged  folds  of  a  straw-coloured  peplum, 
with  a  border  of  Grecian  black;  a  black  and 
gold  band  gleamed  amid  her  ebon  hair,  for 
she  had  changed  her  costume  since  returning 
from  the  theatre;  and  about  her  arm,  like 
the  asp  about  the  arm  of  Cleopatra,  a  gold 
serpent,  with  jewels  for  eyes,  was  entwined, 
and  seemed  to  be  trying  to  bite  its  tail. 

A  small  table,  with  griffins  for  feet,  inlaid 
with  mother-of-pearl,  silver,  and  ivory,  stood 
beside  the  bed,  laden  with  divers  delicacies 
served  in  dishes  of  silver  and  gold  and  earth- 
enware, enamelled  with  beautiful  paintings. 
There  was  a  Phasian  bird,  lying  in  its  feathers, 
and  different  fruits  which  their  varying  seasons 
make  it  seldom  possible  to  serve  at  the  same 
time. 

Everything  seemed  to  indicate  that  a  guest 


Theophile  Gautier 


was  expected;  the  floor  was  strewn  with 
fresh  flowers,  and  the  amphorae  of  wine  were 
plunged  in  urns  filled  with  snow. 

Arria  Marcella  motioned  to  Octavian  to 
recline  beside  her  on  the  biclinium  and  to 
share  her  repast;  the  young  man,  half-mad 
with  surprise  and  love,  took  at  random  a 
mouthful  or  two  of  the  dishes  handed  to 
him  by  small  Asiatic  slaves  with  curled  hair 
and  short  tunics.  Arria  did  not  eat;  but 
she  frequently  put  to  her  lips  a  myrrhine  glass 
of  an  opaline  tint,  filled  with  wine  of  a  dark 
purple  colour  like  thickened  blood;  as  she 
drank,  an  imperceptible  flush  rose  to  her  pale 
cheeks  from  her  heart,  which  had  not  beaten 
for  so  many  years;  but  her  bare  arm,  which 
Octavian  touched  as  he  raised  his  cup,  was 
cold  as  the  skin  of  a  serpent  or  the  marble 
of  a  tomb. 

"Ah!  when  you  paused  in  the  Studj  to 
gaze  upon  the  bit  of  hardened  clay  which 
retains  my  figure,"  said  Arria  Marcella,  fasten- 
ing  her  long,  liquid  glance  upon  Octavian, 

(160] 


Arria  Marcella 


"and  your  thoughts  rushed  ardently  uui 
towards  me,  my  heart  was  conscious  of  it 
in  that  world  where  1  soar,  invisible  to  vulgar 
eyes;  faith  makes  the  god  and  love  the 
woman;  one  is  not  really  dead  except  when 
one  is  no  longer  loved;  your  desire  restored 
me  to  life,  the  potent  evocation  of  your  heart 
annihilated  the  distance  which  lay  between 
us." 

This  idea  of  the  evocation  of  love,  expressed 
by  the  young  woman,  coincided  with  Oc- 
tavian's  philosophical  beliefs  —  beliefs  which 
we  are  not  far  from  sharing. 

In  fact,  nothing  dies;  everything  exists  for- 
ever; no  power  can  annihilate  that  which  once 
had  being.  Every  act,  every  word,  every 
form,  every  thought  that  falls  into  the  universal 
ocean  of  things  produces  circles  there,  which 
go  on  widening  and  widening  to  the  confines  of 
eternity.  Material  shape  disappears  only  from 
the  ordinary  eyes,  and  the  spectres  which  are 
detached  from  it  people  infinity.  Paris  con- 
tinues  to   abduct    Helen    in  some    unknown 

ti  [101 J 


Theophile  Gautier 


region  of  space.  Cleopatra's  galley  swells 
its  silken  sails  over  the  azure  surface  of 
an  ideal  Cydnus.  Some  impassioned  and 
powerful  minds  have  been  able  to  bring  back 
ages  that  seem  to  have  vanished,  and  to 
restore  to  life  persons  dead  to  all  others. 
Faust  had  for  his  mistress  the  daughter  of 
Tyndarus,  and  carried  her  to  his  Gothic  castle 
from  the  mysterious  abysses  of  Hades.  Oc- 
tavian  had  lived  a  single  day  in  the  reign  of 
Titus  and  had  won  the  love  of  Arria  Marcella, 
daughter  of  Arrius  Diomedes,  who  at  that 
moment  was  reclining  by  his  side  upon  an 
antique  couch,  in  a  city  that  for  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  had  ceased  to  exist. 

"By  my  distaste  for  other  women,"  re- 
plied Octavian,  "by  my  unconquerable  tend- 
ency to  dream,  which  lured  me  towards 
the  radiant  shapes  in  the  desert  of  past  ages, 
like  alluring  stars,  I  realised  that  1  should 
never  love  except  apart  from  Time  and  Space. 
It  was  you  whom  I  awaited,  and  that  fragile 
vestige   preserved   by  the   curiosity  of  men 

[162] 


Arria   Marcella 


placed  me  in  relations  with  your  heart  by 
its  hidden  magnetism.  I  know  not  whether 
you  are  a  dream  or  a  reality,  a  phantom  or  a 
woman;  whether  like  Ixion  I  am  pressing  a 
cloud  to  my  deluded  breast,  or  whether  I 
am  the  plaything  of  some  vile  witchcraft;  but 
this  I  do  know,  that  you  will  be  my  first  and 
my  last  love." 

"  May  Cupid,  son  of  Venus,  hear  your 
promise!"  said  Arria  Marcella,  resting  her 
head  upon  the  shoulder  of  her  lover,  who 
threw  his  arms  about  her  in  a  passionate 
embrace.  "Oh!  press  me  to  your  young 
breast,  envelop  me  with  your  warm  breath; 
1  am  cold  because  I  have  remained  so  long 
without  love."  And  Octavian  felt  against  his 
heart  the  rise  and  fall  of  that  beautiful  bosom, 
the  mould  of  which  he  had  admired  that 
very  morning  through  the  glass  of  a  case  in 
the  museum ;  the  coolness  of  that  beautiful 
flesh  penetrated  him  through  his  tunic  and 
made  him  burn.  The  gold  and  black  band 
had  become  detached  from  Arria's  head,  as  it 

[1153J 


Theophile  Gautier 


was  passionately  thrown  back,  and  her  hair 
spread  like  a  black  wave  over  the  purple 
pillow. 

The  slaves  had  removed  the  table.  Naught 
could  be  heard  save  a  confused  sound  of 
kisses  and  sighs.  The  pet  quails,  heedless  of 
that  amorous  scene,  picked  from  the  mosaic 
pavement  the  crumbs  of  the  repast,  uttering 
little  cries. 

Suddenly  the  brazen  rings  of  the  portiere  at 
the  door  of  the  room  moved  on  their  rod, 
and  an  aged  man  of  stern  aspect,  draped  in 
an  ample  brown  cloak,  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. His  gray  beard  was  divided  into  two 
points  like  those  of  the  Nazarenes,  and  his 
face  was  furrowed  as  by  the  fatigue  of 
penances;  a  small  crucifix  of  black  wood 
hung  from  his  neck,  and  left  no  doubt  as 
to  his  faith:  he  belonged  to  the  sect,  then 
of  recent  birth,  of  the  Disciples  of  the  Christ. 

At  sight  of  him,  Arria  Marcella,  over- 
whelmed with  confusion,  concealed  her  face 
beneath  the  folds   of  her   cloak,    like  a  bird 

[1&4] 


Arria  Marcella 


that  puts  its  head  under  its  wing  before  an 
enemy  whom  it  cannot  escape,  to  spare  it- 
self at  least  the  horror  of  looking  upon  him; 
while  Octavian,  rising  on  his  elbow,  gazed 
lixedly  at  the  unwelcome  intruder  who  thus 
abruptly  interrupted  his  happiness. 

"Arria,  Arria,"  said  the  stern-faced  man 
in  a  tone  of  reproach,  "  was  not  the  time  that 
thou  livedst  sufficient  for  thine  evil  behaviour, 
and  must  thine  infamous  amours  encroach 
upon  the  centuries  to  which  they  do  not  be- 
long ?  Canst  thou  not  leave  the  living  in 
their  sphere  ?  have  not  thine  ashes  grown 
cold  since  the  day  when  thou  didst  die  un- 
repentant beneath  the  fiery  rain  from  the 
volcano  ?  Have  not  two  thousand  years  of 
death  calmed  thine  ardour,  and  do  thy  devour- 
ing arms  still  draw  to  thy  marble  breast, 
devoid  of  heart,  the  poor  fools  intoxicated  by 
thy  philtres  ?" 

"I  pray  thee,  Arrius,  my  father,  do  not 
upbraid  me  in  the  name  of  that  morose  re- 
ligion  which   was  never  mine;  for  my  part, 

[ICO] 


Theophile  Gautier 


I  believe  in  our  ancient  gods,  who  love  life, 
youth,  beauty,  and  pleasure;  do  not  force  me 
back  into  colourless  oblivion.  Let  me  enjoy 
this  existence  which  love  has  restored  to 
me. 

"Hold  thy  peace,  impious  girl;  talk  not  to 
me  of  thy  gods,  who  are  demons.  Let  this 
young  man,  fettered  by  thine  impure  seduc- 
tions, go  his  way;  seek  no  longer  to  lure 
him  out  of  the  circle  of  life  which  God  has 
meted  out  to  him;  return  to  the  limbo  of 
paganism  with  thine  Asiatic,  Roman,  or 
Greek  lovers.  Young  Christian,  abandon 
this  worm,  which  would  seem  to  thee  more 
hidious  than  Empusa  and  Phorkys,  couldst 
thou  but  see  her  as  she  really  is." 

Octavian,  deathly  pale,  frozen  with  horror, 
tried  to  speak;  but  his  voice  clung  to  his 
throat,  as  Virgil  would  say. 

"Wilt  thou  obey  me,  Arria?"  cried  the 
tall  man,  imperatively. 

"No,  never!"  replied  Arria,  with  gleaming 
eyes,  as  she  encircled  Octavian  in  her  lovely, 

[166] 


Arria  Marcella 


statuesque  arms,  as  cold,  and  hard,  and  rigid  as 
marble.  Her  frenzied  beauty,  enhanced  by  the 
conflict,  shone  forth  at  that  supreme  moment 
with  supernatural  brightness,  as  if  to  leave 
with  her  young  lover  an  imperishable  memory. 

"In  that  case,  unhappy  creature,"  rejoined 
the  old  man,  "  we  must  employ  strong  meth- 
ods, and  render  your  nothingness  palpable 
and  visible  to  this  deluded  child";  and  in  a 
voice  vibrating  with  authority  he  uttered  a 
formula  of  exorcism,  which  caused  the  purple 
hues  which  the  black  wine  from  the  myrrhine 
glass  had  brought  to  Arria's  cheeks  to  fade 
away. 

At  that  moment,  the  distant  bell  of  one  of 
the  hamlets  in  the  recesses  of  the  mountain, 
pealed  forth  the  first  notes  of  the  angelic 
salutation. 

At  that  sound  a  long-drawn  sigh  of  agony 
issued  from  the  young  woman's  broken  heart. 
Octavian  felt  the  arms  which  embraced  him 
release  their  hold;  the  draperies  which  cov- 
ered her  sank  together,  as  if  the  frame  which 

1167] 


Theophile  Gautier 


held  them  up  had  collapsed,  and  the  unhappy 
midnight  wanderer  saw  beside  him  upon  the 
banquet-couch  only  a  pinch  of  ashes  mingled 
with  a  few  calcined  bones,  among  which 
glittered  golden  bracelets  and  jewels,  and 
shapeless  remains,  such  probably  as  were  dis- 
covered on  disinterring  the  house  of  Arrius 
Diomedes. 

He  uttered  a  terrible  cry  and  lost  conscious- 
ness. 

The  old  man  had  disappeared.  The  sun 
rose,  and  the  apartment,  so  sumptuously  deco- 
rated but  now,  was  naught  but  a  dismantled 
ruin. 

After  sleeping  heavily  because  of  the  liba- 
tions of  the  preceding  night,  Max  and  Fabio 
suddenly  awoke,  and  their  first  thought  was 
to  call  their  comrade,  whose  room  was  near 
theirs,  with  one  of  those  jocose  calls  which 
travellers  sometimes  make  use  of;  Octavian, 
for  a  very  good  reason,  did  not  reply.  Fabio 
and  Max,  receiving  no  answer,  entered  their 

[168] 


Arria  Marcella 


friend's  room  and  found  that  the  bed  had  not 
been  disturbed. 

"He  must  have  fallen  asleep  in  a  chair." 
said  Fabio,  "unable  to  reach  his  bed;  for  dear 
Octavian's  head  isn't  very  strong;  and  he 
probably  went  out  early  to  dissipate  the  fumes 
of  the  wine  in  the  fresh  morning  air." 

"  But  he  drank  very  little,"  said  Max,  mus- 
ingly. "  It  seems  to  me  very  strange.  Let 
us  go  and  look  for  him." 

The  two  friends,  assisted  by  the  guide, 
went  through  all  the  streets  and  squares  and 
lanes  of  Pompeii,  entered  all  the  interesting 
houses,  where  they  imagined  that  Octavian 
might  be  engaged  in  copying  a  picture  or 
taking  down  an  inscription,  and  finally  found 
him  in  a  swoon  upon  the  disjoined  mosaic 
floor  of  a  small  half-ruined  room.  They  had 
much  difficulty  in  restoring  him  to  life,  and 
when  he  recovered  consciousness,  he  vouch- 
safed no  other  explanation  than  that  it  had 
occurred  to  him  to  see  Pompeii  by  moonlight, 
and  that   he  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden 

[169) 


Theophile  Gautier 


faintness,  which  probably  would  have  no  seri- 
ous consequences. 

The  little  party  returned  to  Naples  by  the 
railway,  as  they  had  come;  and  that  evening, 
in  their  box  at  the  San  Carlo,  Max  and  Fabio, 
with  the  aid  of  their  opera-glasses,  watched  a 
swarm  of  nymphs  hopping  about  in  a  ballet, 
under  the  lead  of  Amalia  Ferraris,  the  danseuse 
then  in  vogue,  all  dressed  in  frightful  green 
tights,  which  made  them  look  like  grasshop- 
pers stung  by  a  tarantula.  Octavian,  pale,  with 
wandering  eyes  and  the  bearing  of  one  crushed 
by  grief,  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  what  was 
taking  place  on  the  stage,  so  difficult  was  it  for 
him  to  recover  the  sentiment  of  real  life,  after 
the  marvellous  adventures  of  the  night. 

After  that  visit  to  Pompeii,  Octavian  fell 
into  a  dismal  melancholy,  which  the  merry 
humour  or  the  jests  of  his  companions  aggra- 
vated rather  than  soothed;  the  image  of  Arria 
Marcella  pursued  him  constantly,  and  the 
sad  termination  of  his  fantastic  intrigue  did 

not  destroy  its  charm. 

I  no  J 


Arria  Marcella 


Unable  to  endure  it  any  longer,  he  rr-turned 
secretly  to  Pompeii,  and  walked  about,  as  on 
the  first  occasion,  among  the  ruins  by  moon- 
light, his  heart  throbbing  with  an  insane 
hope;  but  the  hallucination  was  not  repeated, 
he  saw  nothing  but  lizards  scuttling  over  the 
stones;  he  heard  only  the  screams  of  the 
frightened  night-birds;  he  did  not  meet  again 
his  friend  Rufus  Holconius;  Tyche  did  not 
come  to  him  and  place  her  slender  hand  on 
his  arm;  Arria  Marcella  obstinately  slumbered 
in  her  dust. 

In  despair,  Octavian  finally  married  a  young 
and  charming  Englishwoman,  who  is  madly 
in  love  with  him.  His  treatment  of  his  wife  is 
unexceptionable;  and  yet  Ellen,  with  that  in- 
stinct of  the  heart  which  nothing  deceives, 
feels  that  her  husband  is  enamoured  of  another; 
— but  of  whom  ?  That  is  something  which 
the  closest  watching  has  not  succeeded  in  dis- 
covering. Octavian  keeps  no  ballet-dancer; 
in  society  he  addresses  only  commonplace 
compliments  to  women;  he  even  responded 


Theophile  Gautier 


very  coolly  to  the  overtures  of  a  Russian  prin- 
cess, celebrated  for  her  beauty  and  her  co- 
quetry. A  secret  drawer,  opened  during  her 
husband's  absence,  furnished  no  proof  of  in- 
fidelity to  feed  Ellen's  suspicions.  But  how 
could  it  occur  to  her  to  be  jealous  of  Arria 
Marcella,  daughter  of  Arrius  Diomedes,  the 
freedman  of  Tiberius  ? 
1852. 


[172J 


The  Dead  Leman 


lira  J 


The  Dead  Lcman 

You  ask  me,  brother,  if  I  have  ever  loved; 
yes.  It  is  a  strange  and  terrible  story, 
and  although  1  am  sixty-six  years  old,  I  hardly 
dare  to  stir  the  ashes  of  that  memory.  1  am 
unwilling  to  refuse  you  anything,  but  I  would 
not  tell  such  a  tale  to  a  mind  less  experienced 
than  yours.  The  incidents  are  so  extraordinary 
that  I  cannot  believe  that  they  ever  happened 
to  me.  For  more  than  three  years  I  was  the 
sport  of  a  strange  and  devilish  delusion.  1, 
a  poor  country  priest,  led  the  life  of  one 
damned,  the  life  of  a  worldling,  of  a  Sardan- 
apalus,  every  night  in  dreams  (God  grant 
they  were  dreams!).  One  single  look  too 
freely  cast  upon  a  woman  nearly  caused  the 
ruin  of  my  soul ;  but  at  last,  with  the  aid  of  God 
and  of  my  blessed  patron  saint,  I  succeeded  in 
expelling  the  wicked  spirit  which  had  taken 
possession  of  me.     My  life  was  intermingled 

[175] 


Theophile  Gautier 


with  a  nocturnal  life  entirely  different.  By 
day  I  was  a  priest  of  the  Lord,  chaste,  intent 
upon  prayer  and  sacred  things;  at  night,  as 
soon  as  1  had  closed  my  eyes,  I  became  a 
young  nobleman,  a  fine  connoisseur  in 
women,  dogs,  and  horses,  throwing  dice, 
drinking,  and  blaspheming;  and  when  I  woke 
at  sunrise,  it  seemed  to  me  that,  on  the 
other  hand,  1  had  fallen  asleep,  and  that  I 
was  dreaming  that  I  was  a  priest.  My  mind 
has  retained  memories,  objects,  and  words  of 
that  somnambulistic  life,  from  which  I  cannot 
escape,  and  although  I  have  never  gone  with- 
out the  bounds  of  my  presbytery,  one  would 
say,  to  hear  me,  that  I  was  a  man  who,  having 
become  satiated  with  everything  and  having 
turned  his  back  upon  the  world,  had  betaken 
himself  to  religion,  and  proposed  to  end  his 
too  agitated  life  in  the  bosom  of  God,  rather 
than  a  humble  seminarist,  who  had  grown 
old  in  this  obscure  curacy,  in  the  depths  of 
the  woods,  and  aloof  from  all  connection  with 
the  affairs  of  his  time. 

[176] 


The   Dead   Leman 


Yes,  I  loved  as  no  one  in  the  world  has 
ever  loved,  with  an  insensate  and  furious 
passion,  so  violent  that  1  am  surprised  that 
it  did  not  cause  my  heart  to  burst.  Ah! 
what  nights!  what  nights! 

From  my  earliest  childhood,  1  had  felt  a 
calling  to  the  priesthood;  so  that  all  my 
studies  tended  in  that  direction,  and  my  life, 
up  to  the  age  of  twenty-four,  was  simply 
a  prolonged  novitiate.  My  theological  studies 
completed,  I  passed  through  all  the  minor 
orders  in  succession,  and  my  superiors  deemed 
me  worthy,  despite  my  extreme  youth,  to  take 
the  last  and  formidable  step.  The  day  of 
my  ordination  was  fixed  for  Easter  week. 

1  had  never  been  into  society;  for  me  the 
world  was  the  enclosure  of  the  college  and 
the  seminary.  I  had  a  vague  knowledge  that 
there  was  a  something  called  woman,  but  I 
never  dwelt  upon  the  subject ;  1  was  absolutely 
innocent.  1  saw  my  intlrm  old  mother  only 
twice  a  year;  that  was  the  extent  of  my 
connection  with  the  outside  world. 

»  [177] 


Theophile   Gautier 


I  had  no  regrets,  I  felt  not  the  slightest 
hesitation  in  the  face  of  that  irrevocable  en- 
gagement; 1  was  overflowing  with  joy  and 
impatience.  Never  did  a  young  fiance  count 
the  hours  with  more  feverish  ardour;  I  did 
not  sleep,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  saying  mass; 
I  could  imagine  nothing  nobler  in  the  world 
than  to  be  a  priest;  I  would  have  declined 
to  be  a  king  or  a  poet.  My  ambition  could 
conceive  of  no  loftier  aim. 

I  say  this  to  show  you  that  the  things  that 
happened  to  me  should  not  have  happened, 
and  how  inexplicable  was  the  fascination  to 
which  I  fell  a  victim. 

When  the  great  day  came,  I  walked  to  the 
church  with  a  step  so  light  that  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  sustained  in  air,  or  that 
I  had  wings  on  my  shoulders.  I  fancied  my- 
self an  angel,  and  1  was  amazed  at  the  gloomy 
and  preoccupied  faces  of  my  companions;  for 
there  were  several  of  us.  I  had  passed  the 
night  in  prayer,  and  I  was  in  a  condition 
almost  bordering  on  ecstacy.     The  bishop,  a 

[178] 


The   Dead    Leman 


venerable  old  man,  seemed  to  me  to  be  God 
the  Father  leaning  over  His  eternity,  and  I 
beheld  Heaven  through  the  arched  ceiling  of 
the  temple. 

You  know  the  details  of  the  ceremony:  the 
benediction,  the  communion  under  both  forms, 
the  anointing  of  the  palms  of  the  hands  with 
the  novice's  oil,  and  lastly  the  holy  sacri- 
fice, administered  by  the  priest  in  conjunction 
with  the  bishop.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  it. 
Oh!  how  truly  did  Job  say  that  he  is  impru- 
dent who  does  not  conclude  a  covenant  with 
his  eyes!  I  chanced  to  raise  my  head,  which 
I  had  thus  far  kept  lowered,  and  1  saw  before 
me,  so  near  that  it  seemed  1  could  have  touched 
her,  although  in  reality  she  was  at  a  consider- 
able distance  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  rail, 
a  young  woman  of  rare  beauty,  attired  with 
royal  magnificence.  It  was  as  if  scales  fell 
from  my  eyes.  I  experienced  the  sensation 
of  a  blind  man  suddenly  recovering  his  sight. 
The  bishop,  but  now  so  radiant,  suddenly 
faded  away,  the  candles  turned  pale  in  their 

[179] 


Theophile  Gautier 


golden  sconces,  like  stars  at  dawn,  and  the 
whole  church  was  enveloped  in  complete 
darkness.  The  charming  creature  stood  out 
against  that  dark  background  like  an  angelic 
revelation;  she  seemed  illuminated  by  herself, 
and  to  shed  light  rather  than  to  receive  it. 

I  lowered  my  eyes,  fully  determined  not  to 
raise  them  again,  in  order  to  escape  the  influ- 
ence of  exterior  objects;  for  distraction  took 
more  and  more  complete  possession  of  me, 
and  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing. 

A  moment  later  I  opened  my  eyes  again, 
for  through  my  lashes  I  could  see  her  glisten- 
ing with  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  and  in 
a  purplish  penumbra  as  when  one  looks  at 
the  sun. 

Oh!  how  lovely  she  was!  The  greatest 
painters,  when,  turning  to  Heaven  for  ideal 
beauty,  they  have  brought  to  earth  the  divine 
portrait  of  the  Madonna,  do  not  even  approach 
that  wondrous  reality.  Neither  the  verses  of 
the  poet  nor  the  painter's  palette  can  convey 
an  idea  of  it.     She  was  rather  tall,  with  the 

[180] 


The   Dead   Leman 


form  and  bearing  of  a  goddess;  her  hair,  uf 
a  soft,  light  shade,  was  parted  on  top  of  her 
head,  and  fell  over  her  temples  like  two 
golden  waves;  she  was  like  a  queen  with  her 
diadem;  her  forehead,  of  a  bluish  and  trans- 
parent whiteness,  rose  broad  and  serene  over 
arched  eyebrows,  almost  black;  a  peculiarity 
which  intensified  the  effect  of  sea-green  pupils 
of  an  unsustainable  vivacity  and  brilliancy. 
What  eyes!  With  one  flash  they  decided 
a  man's  destiny;  they  had  a  limpidity,  a  life, 
an  ardour,  a  glistening  humidity  which  1 
have  never  seen  in  other  human  eyes;  they 
shot  forth  rays  like  arrows,  which  !  dis- 
tinctly saw  flying  towards  my  heart.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  flame  which  illuminated 
them  came  from  heaven  or  hell,  but  it  surely 
came  from  one  or  the  other.  That  woman 
was  an  angel  or  a  demon,  perhaps  both;  she 
certainly  did  not  issue  from  the  loins  of  Eve, 
our  common  mother.  Teeth  of  the  purest 
pearl  sparkled  in   her  ruddy  smile,  and  little 

dimples  appeared  with   each  motion  of  her 

[laij 


Theophile  Gautier 


mouth,  in  the  satiny  rose  of  her  adorable 
cheeks.  As  for  her  nostrils,  they  were  regal 
in  their  graceful  and  dignified  shape,  and  indi- 
cated the  noblest  origin.  A  lustre  as  of  agate 
played  upon  the  smooth,  glossy  skin  of  her 
half-bare  shoulders,  and  strings  of  great  blonde 
pearls,  of  a  shade  almost  like  her  neck,  hung 
down  upon  her  bosom.  From  time  to  time 
she  elevated  her  head  with  the  undulating 
grace  of  a  snake,  or  of  a  startled  peacock, 
and  imparted  a  slight  quiver  to  the  high  em- 
broidered openwork  ruff  which  surrounded 
her  neck  like  a  silver  trelliswork. 

She  wore  a  dress  of  flame-coloured  velvet, 
and  from  the  broad  sleeves  lined  with  ermine 
peeped  forth  patrician  hands  of  infinite  deli- 
cacy, with  long,  plump  fingers,  and  so  trans- 
parent that  they  allowed  the  light  to  shine 
through,  like  Aurora's. 

All  these  details  are  still  vivid  as  if  they  were 
of  yesterday,  and  although  I  was  extremely 
perturbed,  nothing  escaped  me:  the  faintest 
touch  of  shading,  the  little  dark  spot  at  the 

[182] 


The   Dead    Leman 


point  of  the  chin,  the  imperceptible  down  at 
the  parting  of  the  lips,  the  velvety  softness  of 
the  forehead,  the  quivering  shadow  of  the 
eyelashes  on  the  cheeks,  1  grasped  them  all 
with  amazing  lucidity. 

As  I  gazed  at  her,  I  felt  doors  open  within 
me  which  had  hitherto  been  closed;  the  rub- 
bish was  cleared  away  from  choked-up  open- 
ings on  every  side,  and  gave  me  a  glimpse  of 
prospects  theretofore  undreamed  of;  life  ap- 
peared to  me  in  a  totally  different  aspect;  1 
was  born  to  a  new  order  of  ideas.  A  frightful 
anguish  gnawed  at  my  heart;  every  moment 
that  passed  seemed  to  me  but  a  second  and 
yet  a  century.  The  ceremony  progressed, 
however,  and  I  was  carried  very  far  from  the 
world,  the  entrance  to  which  my  rising  pas- 
sions fiercely  besieged.  I  said  yes,  however, 
when  1  longed  to  say  no;  when  everything 
within  me  rose  in  revolt  and  protest  against 
the  violence  my  tongue  exerted  on  my  mind; 
a  hidden  force  tore  the  words  from  my  throat 
against   my   will.        It    is   the   same    feeling, 


Theophile  Gautier 


perhaps,  that  makes  so  many  maidens  go  to 
the  altar  with  the  firm  resolution  of  refusing 
publicly  the  husband  who  is  forced  upon 
them,  although  not  a  single  one  fulfils  her 
intention.  It  is  that,  without  doubt,  which 
makes  so  many  unhappy  novices  take  the 
veil,  although  they  are  firmly  resolved  to 
tear  it  in  shreds  when  the  time  comes  to  pro- 
nounce their  vows.  One  dares  not  cause 
such  a  scandal  before  the  world,  or  disappoint 
the  expectation  of  so  many  people;  all  their 
wishes,  all  their  glances  seem  to  weigh  upon 
you  like  a  cloak  of  lead;  and  then,  measures 
are  so  carefully  taken,  everything  is  so  fully 
arranged  beforehand,  in  so  clearly  irrevocable 
a  fashion,  that  the  will  yields  to  the  weight 
of  the  thing  and  collapses  utterly. 

The  expression  of  the  fair  unknown  changed 
as  the  ceremony  progressed.  Tender  and 
caressing  at  first,  it  became  disdainful  and  dis- 
satisfied, as  if  because  it  had  not  been  under- 
stood. 

I  made  an  effort  that  might  have  moved  a 

[m] 


The   Dead   Leman 


mountain,  to  cry  out  that  I  would  not  be  a 
priest;  but  I  could  not  accomplish  it;  my 
tongue  was  glued  to  my  palate,  and  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  give  effect  to  my  desire 
by  the  least  syllable  of  negation.  Fully 
awake  as  I  was,  I  was  in  a  plight  similar  to 
that  stage  of  a  nightmare  where  you  try  to 
utter  a  word  upon  which  your  life  depends, 
but  cannot  succeed. 

She  seemed  to  appreciate  the  martyrdom  I 
was  suffering,  and,  as  if  to  encourage  me,  she 
flashed  at  me  a  glance  replete  with  divine 
promise.  Her  eyes  were  a  poem  of  which 
each  glance  formed  a  stanza. 

She  seemed  to  say  to  me: 

"  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  I  will  make  thee  hap- 
pier than  God  Himself  in  His  Paradise ;  the  very 
angels  will  be  jealous  of  thee.  Tear  away 
that  funereal  shroud  in  which  thou  art  about 
to  wrap  thyself;  I  am  Beauty,  I  am  Youth,  1 
am  Life;  come  to  me  and  together  we  shall 
be  Love.  What  can  Jehovah  offer  you  in 
exchange  ?    Our    lives   will   flow   on    like  a 

(1851 


Theophile  Gautier 


dream,  and  will  be  but  an  everlasting  kiss. 
Pour  the  wine  from  that  chalice,  and  thou  art 
free.  I  will  bear  thee  away  to  unknown  isles; 
thou  shalt  sleep  between  my  breasts,  in  a 
bed  of  massy  gold,  beneath  a  canopy  of  sil- 
ver; for  I  love  thee  and  I  long  to  take  thee 
away  from  this  God  of  thine,  before  whom  so 
many  noble  hearts  pour  out  floods  of  love 
which  never  reach  Him." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  hear  these 
words,  uttered  in  a  rhythm  of  infinite  sweet- 
ness; for  her  glance  was  actually  sonorous, 
and  the  sentences  that  her  eyes  sent  forth  to 
me  echoed  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  as  if  an 
invisible  mouth  had  breathed  them  into  my 
very  being.  I  felt  that  I  was  ready  to  re- 
nounce God,  and  yet  my  heart  mechanically 
went  through  with  the  formalities  of  the  cere- 
mony. The  beautiful  creature  cast  at  me  a 
second  glance,  so  beseeching,  so  despairing, 
that  keen  blades  pierced  my  heart,  and  1  felt 
more  sword-points  in  my  breast  than  Our 
Lady  of  Sorrows  herself. 

1186] 


The   Dead   Leman 


All  was  consummated;  I  had  become  a 
priest. 

Never  did  human  features  express  such 
poignant  suffering;  the  maiden  who  sees  her 
betrothed  suddenly  fall  dead  at  her  side,  the 
mother  by  her  child's  empty  cradle,  Eve  seated 
al  the  threshold  of  the  gate  of  Paradise,  the 
miser  who  finds  a  stone  in  place  of  his  hoard, 
the  poet  who  has  allowed  the  only  copy  of  the 
manuscript  of  his  finest  work  to  fall  into  the 
fire,  seem  no  more  crushed  and  inconsolable. 
The  blood  entirely  left  her  charming  face, 
and  she  became  as  white  as  marble;  her 
beautiful  arms  fell  beside  her  body,  as  if  the 
muscles  had  lost  their  power;  and  she  leaned 
against  a  pillar,  for  her  limbs  trembled  and 
gave  way  beneath  her.  As  for  myself,  with 
livid  cheeks  apd  brow  bathed  in  sweat  more 
bloody  than  that  of  Calvary,  1  walked  with 
tottering  steps  towards  the  door  of  the  church ; 
I  was  suffocating;  the  arches  seemed  to  rest 
on  my  shoulders,  and  1  fancied  that  my  head 
alone  bore  the  whole  weight  of  the  dome. 

[1.7] 


Theophile  Gautier 


As  I  was  about  to  cross  the  threshold,  a 
hand  suddenly  seized  mine,  a  woman's  hand! 
I  had  never  touched  one  before.  It  was  as 
cold  as  the  skin  of  a  serpent,  and  yet  the  im- 
pression burned  like  the  brand  of  a  red-hot 
iron.  It  was  she.  "Unhappy  man!  un- 
happy man!  what  hast  thou  done?"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice;  then  she  disappeared  in 
the  crowd. 

The  aged  bishop  passed;  he  looked  at  me 
with  a  stern  expression.  I  cut  the  most  extra- 
ordinary figure  imaginable;  I  turned  pale,  I 
flushed,  I  was  giddy.  One  of  my  comrades 
had  pity  on  me,  and  led  me  away;  I  was  in- 
capable of  finding  the  road  to  the  seminary 
alone.  At  the  corner  of  the  street,  while  the 
young  priest's  head  was  turned  in  another  di- 
rection, a  negro  page,  singularly  attired,  ap- 
proached me  and  placed  in  my  hand,  without 
stopping,  a  small  wallet  with  corners  of  carved 
gold,  motioning  to  me  to  hide  it;  I  slipped  it 
up  my  sleeve  and  kept  it  there  until  1  was 
alone   in   my  cell.     Then   I   broke  the  lock; 

[188] 


The   Dead   Leman 


there  was  nothing  inside  save  two  sheets  of 
paper  with  the  words:  "Clarimonde.  at  the 
Concini  Palace."  I  was  then  so  little  ac- 
quainted with  the  affairs  of  life  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  Clarimonde  despite  her  celebrity, 
and  I  was  absolutely  ignorant  as  to  the 
location  of  the  Concini  Palace.  I  made  a 
thousand  conjectures,  each  more  extravagant 
than  the  last;  but  in  truth,  provided  that  I 
might  see  her  again,  I  cared  very  little  what  she 
might  be,  whether  a  great  lady  or  a  courtesan. 
That  passion,  born  in  an  instant,  had  taken 
imperishable  root;  1  did  not  even  think  of  try- 
ing to  tear  it  up,  I  realised  so  fully  that  it  was 
impossible.  That  woman  had  taken  complete 
possession  of  me;  a  single  glance  had  sufficed 
to  change  me;  she  had  breathed  her  will  into 
me;  I  no  longer  lived  in  myself,  but  in  her 
and  through  her.  I  did  a  thousand  foolish 
things;  1  kissed  the  spot  on  my  hand  that  she 
had  touched,  and  1  repeated  her  name  hours 
at  a  time.     I  had  only  to  close  my  eyes  to 

see   her   as   distinctly   as    if  she  were   really 

n89i 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


present,  and  I  said  to  myself  again  and  again 
the  words  that  she  had  said  to  me  beneath 
the  church  porch:  "Unhappy  man!  unhappy 
man!  what  hast  thou  done?"  I  realised  all 
the  horror  of  my  situation,  and  the  terrible 
and  fatal  aspects  of  the  profession  I  had  em- 
braced were  clearly  revealed  to  me.  To  be 
a  priest!  That  is  to  say,  to  be  chaste,  not  to 
love,  to  distinguish  neither  sex  nor  age,  to 
turn  aside  from  all  beauty,  to  put  out  one's 
eyes,  to  crawl  beneath  the  icy  shadow  of  a 
cloister  or  a  church,  to  see  none  but  the 
dying,  to  keep  vigil  by  unknown  corpses, 
and  to  wear  mourning  for  yourself  over  your 
black  soutane,  so  that  your  garment  may  be 
used  to  make  your  winding-sheet! 

And  1  felt  life  rising  within  me  like  a  sub- 
terranean lake  expanding  and  overflowing; 
my  blood  beat  violently  in  my  veins;  my 
youth,  so  long  held  in  restraint,  suddenly 
burst  forth  like  the  aloe  which  takes  a  hun- 
dred years  to  flower  and  then  blossoms  with 
a  clap  of  thunder. 

[1901 


The   Dead   Leman 


How  was  I  to  arrange  to  see  Clarimonde 
again  ?  I  had  no  pretext  for  leaving  the 
seminary,  as  1  knew  no  one  in  the  city;  in- 
deed, I  was  not  to  remain  there,  and  I  was 
waiting  only  until  I  should  be  told  what 
curacy  I  was  to  occupy.  1  tried  to  loosen 
the  bars  at  the  window;  but  it  was  terribly 
high,  and  as  I  had  no  ladder,  1  could  not  think 
of  escaping  that  way.  Besides,  I  could  de- 
scend only  at  night;  and  how  could  1  Hnd 
my  way  through  the  inextricable  labyrinth 
of  streets  ?  All  these  obstacles,  which  would 
have  been  nothing  at  all  to  others,  were 
enormous  to  me,  a  poor  seminarist,  in  love 
since  yesterday,  without  experience,  without 
money,  and  without  attire. 

"Ah!  if  I  had  not  been  a  priest,  1  might 
have  seen  her  every  day;  I  might  have  been 
her  lover,  her  husband,"  I  said  to  myself  in 
my  blindness;  "instead  of  being  wrapped  in 
my  dismal  winding-sheet,  1  should  have  gar- 
ments of  silk  and  velvet,  gold  chains,  a  sword, 
and  plumes,  like  the  gallant  young  cavaliers. 


Theophile  Gautier 


My  hair,  instead  of  being  dishonoured  by  a 
broad  tonsure,  would  play  about  my  neck 
in  waving  curls;  I  should  have  a  fine  waxed 
mustache,  I  should  be  a  hero."  But  an  hour 
passed  in  front  of  an  altar,  a  few  words 
barely  spoken,  had  cut  me  off  forever  from 
the  ranks  of  the  living,  and  I  myself  had 
sealed  the  door  of  my  tomb;  I  had  shot  with 
my  own  hand  the  bolt  of  my  prison! 

1  stood  at  the  window.  The  sky  was 
beautifully  blue,  the  trees  had  donned  their 
spring  robes;  Nature  bedecked  herself  with 
ironical  joy.  The  square  was  full  of  people, 
going  and  coming;  young  beaux  and  youth- 
ful beauties,  two  by  two,  walked  towards  the 
garden  and  the  arbours.  Merry  companions 
passed,  singing  drinking-songs;  there  was 
a  bustle,  an  animation,  a  merriment,  which 
made  my  black  garments  and  my  solitude 
stand  out  in  painful  relief.  A  young  mother, 
on  her  doorstep,  was  playing  with  her  child; 
she  kissed  its  little  red  lips,  still  empearled 
with  drops  of  milk,  and  indulged  in  a  thous- 

[192] 


The   Dead   Leman 


and  of  those  divine  puerilities  which  mothers 
alone  can  invent.  The  father,  standing,'  at  a 
little  distance,  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  charm- 
ing group,  and  his  folded  arms  pressed  his 
joy  to  his  heart.  I  could  not  endure  that 
spectacle;  1  closed  my  window  and  threw 
myself  on  my  bed  with  a  horrible  hatred  and 
jealousy  in  my  heart,  gnawing  my  fingers 
and  my  bedclothes  like  a  tiger  who  has 
fasted  three  days. 

1  do  not  know  how  long  I  remained  in 
this  condition;  but  as  I  turned  over  in  a  spasm 
of  frenzy,  1  saw  the  Abbe  Serapion  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  watching 
me  closely.  I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  and 
dropping  my  head  upon  my  breast,  covered 
my  eyes  with  my  hand. 

"  Romuald,  my  friend,  something  extra- 
ordinary is  taking  place  in  you,"  said  Serapion 
after  a  few  moments  of  silence;  "  your  con- 
duct is  really  inexplicable!  You,  who  were 
so  pious,  so  quiet,  and  so  gentle,  rave  in  your 
cell  like  a  wild  beast.     Beware,  my  brother, 

.    13  [193] 


Theophile  Gautier 


and  do  not  listen  to  the  suggestions  of  the 
devil;  the  evil  spirit,  irritated  because  you 
have  consecrated  yourself  forever  to  the  Lord, 
is  prowling  about  you  like  a  savage  wolf, 
making  a  last  effort  to  lure  you  to  him.  In- 
stead of  allowing  yourself  to  be  vanquished, 
my  dear  Romuald,  make  a  shield  for  yourself 
with  prayers,  a  buckler  with  mortifications, 
and  fight  valiantly  against  the  foe;  you  will 
overcome  him.  Trial  is  necessary  to  virtue, 
and  gold  comes  forth  refined  from  the  cruci- 
ble. Do  not  be  dismayed  or  discouraged; 
the  most  watchful  and  steadfast  souls  have 
had  such  moments.  Pray,  fast,  meditate, 
and  the  evil  spirit  will  depart." 

The  Abbe  Serapion's  words  caused  me  to 
reflect,  and  I  became  a  little  calmer. 

"  I  came  to  inform  you  of  your  appoint- 
ment  to   the   curacy  of  C .     The  priest 

who  held  it  has  died,  and  monseigneur  the 
bishop  has  instructed  me  to  go  with  you 
and  install  you;  be  ready  to-morrow." 

I  answered  with  a  nod  that  I  would  be, 

[m] 


The    Dead    Leman 


and  the  abbe  withdrew.  I  opened  my  missal 
and  began  to  read  prayers;  but  the  lines  soon 
became  blurred  beneath  my  eyes;  the  thread 
of  the  ideas  became  entangled  in  my  brain, 
and  the  book  slipped  from  my  hands  un- 
heeded. 

To  go  away  on  the  morrow  without  seeing 
her  again!  To  add  still  another  impossibility 
to  those  which  already  lay  between  us!  To 
lose  forever  the  hope  of  meeting  her,  unless 
by  a  miracle!  Write  to  her.? — by  whom 
could  I  send  my  letter?  With  the  sacred 
character  which  1  bore,  to  whom  could  I 
open  my  heart,  in  whom  could  I  confide  ? 
I  was  terribly  perplexed.  And  then,  what 
Abb6  Serapion  had  said  to  me  of  the  wiles 
of  the  devil  returned  to  my  mind;  the  oddity 
of  the  adventure,  the  supernatural  beauty  of 
Clarimonde,  the  phosphorescent  gleam  of  her 
eyes,  the  burning  touch  of  her  hand,  the 
confusion  into  which  she  had  thrown  me, 
the  sudden  change  which  had  taken  place  in 
me,   my   piety    vanished    in   an   instant — all 

[1051 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


these  clearly  dembnstrated  the  presence  of 
the  devil,  and  perhaps  that  satiny  hand  was 
only  the  glove  with  which  he  had  covered 
his  claw.  These  ideas  caused  me  the  greatest 
alarm;  I  picked  up  the  missal  which  had 
fallen  from  my  knees  to  the  floor,  and  began 
anew  to  pray. 

The  next  day  Serapion  called  for  me;  two 
mules  awaited  us  at  the  door,  laden  with  our 
thin  valises;  he  mounted  one  and  I  the  other 
as  well  as  we  might.  As  we  rode  through 
the  streets  of  the  city,  I  looked  at  all  the 
windows  and  all  the  balconies  to  see  if  I 
could  not  espy  Clarimonde;  but  it  was  too 
early,  the  city  had  not  yet  opened  its  eyes. 
My  glance  tried  to  pierce  behind  the  blinds 
and  through  the  curtains  of  all  the  palaces 
we  passed.  Serapion  doubtless  attributed  my 
curiosity  to  the  beauty  of  the  architecture, 
for  he  slackened  the  pace  of  his  steed  to  give 
me  time  to  look.  At  last  we  reached  the 
city  gates  and  began  to  climb  the  hill.  When 
I  was  at  the  top,  I  turned  to  glance  once  more 

[196] 


The   Dead   Leman 


at  the  place  where  Clarimonde  lived.  The 
shadow  of  a  cloud  covered  the  city  entirely; 
its  blue  and  red  roofs  were  blended  in  the 
prevailing  half-light,  above  which  rose  here 
and  there,  like  patches  of  white  foam,  the 
morning  smoke.  By  a  curious  optical  effect, 
a  single  edifice  surpassing  in  height  the  neigh- 
bouring buildings,  which  were  completely 
drowned  in  vapour,  stood  out,  golden-hued, 
in  a  single  beam  of  light;  although  it  was 
more  than  a  league  away,  it  seemed  very 
near.  1  could  distinguish  the  slightest  details, 
the  turrets,  the  platforms,  the  windows,  and 
even  the  weather-vanes  in  the  shape  of  a 
swallow's  tail. 

"What  is  the  palace  that  1  see  yonder,  all 
lighted  up  by  the  sun?"  I  asked  Serapion. 
He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and,  having 
looked,  he  answered: 

"  It  is  the  ancient  palace  which  Prince 
Concini  has  given  to  the  courtesan  Clarimonde ; 
shocking  scenes  take  place  there." 

At  that  moment— and  1  do  not  know  even 

[I'JTJ 


Theophile  Gautier 


now  whether  it  was  a  reality  or  an  illusion 
— I  fancied  that  I  saw  a  slender  white  form 
glide  along  the  terrace,  gleam  for  an  instant, 
and  vanish.     It  was  Clarimonde! 

Oh!  did  she  know  that  at  that  moment, 
from  the  height  of  the  rugged  road  which 
separated  me  from  her,  and  which  I  was 
never  to  descend  again,  1  was  gazing,  ardent 
and  restless,  at  the  palace  in  which  she  dwelt, 
and  which  a  mocking  trick  of  the  light  seemed 
to  bring  nearer  to  me,  as  if  to  invite  me  to 
enter  as  its  lord  ?  Doubtless  she  knew  it,  and 
her  soul  was  too  closely  bound  to  mine  not 
to  feel  its  slightest  emotions;  and  it  was 
that  sympathy  which  had  impelled  her,  still 
clad  in  her  night-robe,  to  go  out  upon  the 
terrace  amid  the  icy  dews  of  the  morning. 

The  shadow  gained  the  palace,  and  there 
was  nothing  but  a  motionless  ocean  of  roofs 
and  gables,  in  which  one  could  distinguish 
naught  save  one  mountainous  undulation.  S6- 
rapion  urged  forward  his  mule,  whose  gait 
mine  immediately  imitated,  and  a  turn  in  the 

(198] 


The   Dead   Leman 


road  concealed  from   me  forever  the  city  of 

S ;  for  I  was  destined  never  to  go  thither 

again.  After  travelling  three  days  through  an 
unattractive  country,  we  saw  the  weather-vane 
of  the  steeple  of  the  church  in  which  I  was 
to  officiate  appear  through  the  trees;  and  after 
riding  through  a  number  of  winding  streets, 
lined  with  hovels  and  garden-plots,  we  found 
ourselves  in  front  of  the  edifice,  which  was 
not  very  magnificent.  A  porch  ornamented 
with  a  moulding  or  two,  and  two  or  three 
pillars  of  rough-hewn  sandstone,  a  tile  roof, 
and  buttresses  of  the  same  material  as  the 
pillars  —  that  was  all.  At  the  left  was  the 
cemetery,  full  of  high  weeds,  with  a  tall  iron 
cross  in  the  centre;  at  the  right,  and  in  the 
shadow  of  the  church,  the  presbytery.  It  was 
a  house  of  extreme  simplicity,  clean,  but  bare. 
We  entered;  a  few  hens  were  pecking  at 
grains  of  oats  scattered  on  the  ground;  accus- 
tomed apparently  to  the  black  garments  of 
ecclesiastics,  they  did  not  take  fright  at  our 

presence  and  hardly  moved  aside  to  let  us 

[m] 


Th6ophile  Gautier 


pass.  We  heard  a  hoarse,  wheezy  bark, 
and  an  old  dog  ran  towards  us.  It  was  my 
predecessor's  dog.  He  had  the  dull  eye,  the 
gray  hair,  and  all  the  other  symptoms  of  the 
extremest  old  age  which  a  dog  may  attain.  I 
patted  him  gently  with  my  hand  and  he  at 
once  walked  beside  me  with  an  air  of  in- 
expressible gratification.  A  woman  advanced 
in  years,  who  had  been  the  former  cure's 
housekeeper,  also  came  to  meet  us,  and  after 
showing  me  into  a  room  on  the  ground  floor, 
asked  me  if  I  intended  to  keep  her.  I  told 
her  that  1  would  retain  her  and  the  dog,  the 
hens,  too,  and  all  the  furniture  which  her 
master  had  left  her  at  his  death ;  this  caused 
her  a  transport  of  joy,  and  the  Abbe  Serapion 
at  once  gave  her  the  price  that  she  asked. 

My  installation  completed,  the  Abbe  Sera- 
pion returned  to  the  seminary.  So  I  was  left 
alone,  with  nobody  to  lean  upon  but  myself. 
Thoughts  of  Clarimonde  began  to  haunt  me 
once  more,  and  strive  as  I  would  to  banish 
them,  I  could  not  always  succeed.    One  even- 

[200] 


The   Dead    Leman 


ing,  as  I  walked  along  the  box-bordered  paths 
of  my  little  garden,  it  seemed  to  me  that  1  saw 
through  the  hedge  a  female  form  following 
my  every  movement,  and  sea-green  eyes 
gleaming  among  the  leaves;  but  it  was  only 
an  illusion,  and,  having  gone  to  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge,  1  found  nothing  there  but  a  foot- 
print on  the  gravel,  so  small  that  one  would 
have  said  that  it  was  made  by  a  child's  foot. 
The  garden  was  enclosed  by  very  high 
walls;  I  searched  every  nook  and  corner,  and 
there  was  no  one  there.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  explain  that  circumstance,  which, 
however,  was  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
strange  things  which  were  to  happen  to  me. 
1  had  been  living  thus  a  year,  performing 
with  scrupulous  exactitude  all  the  duties  of 
my  profession,  praying,  fasting,  exhorting,  and 
assisting  the  sick,  and  giving  alms  to  such  an 
extent  that  I  went  without  the  most  indis- 
pensable necessities  of  life.  But  1  was  con- 
scious of  a  great  aridness  within  me,  and 
the  sources  of  grace  were  closed   to   me.     I 

[201) 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


enjoyed  none  of  that  happiness  which  the 
accomplishment  of  a  sacred  mission  affords; 
my  thoughts  were  elsewhere,  and  Clari- 
monde's  words  often  came  to  my  lips  like  a 
sort  of  involuntary  refrain.  O  brother,  con- 
sider this  well!  Because  I  raised  my  eyes  a 
single  time  to  a  woman's  face,  for  a  fault 
apparently  so  venial,  I  experienced  for  many 
years  the  most  wretched  perturbation  of 
spirit,  and  the  happiness  of  my  life  was  for- 
ever destroyed. 

I  will  dwell  no  longer  upon  these  defeats 
and  these  inward  victories  always  followed  by 
heavier  falls,  but  I  will  pass  at  once  to  a  de- 
cisive incident.  One  night  some  one  rang 
violently  at  my  door.  The  aged  housekeeper 
answered  the  bell,  and  a  copper-coloured  man, 
richly  clad,  but  in  outlandish  fashion,  and 
wearing  a  long  dagger,  appeared  in  the  rays 
of  Barbara's  lantern.  Her  first  impulse  was  one 
of  terror;  but  the  man  reassured  her  and  told 
her  that  he  must  see  me  at  once  about  a  mat- 
ter concerning  my  ministry.     Barbara  showed 

[202] 


The   Dead   Leman 


him  upstairs,  where  1  was  on  the  point  of  retir- 
ing. The  man  told  me  that  his  mistress,  a  very 
great  lady,  was  at  death's  door  and  desired  to 
see  a  priest.  I  replied  that  1  was  ready  to  ac- 
company him;  1  took  with  me  what  1  needed 
for  administering  extreme  unction,  and  1  went 
downstairs  in  all  haste.  At  the  door  two 
horses  black  as  night  were  pawing  the  ground 
impatiently  and  blowing  from  their  nostrils 
long  streams  of  vapour  against  their  breasts. 
He  held  the  stirrup  for  me  and  assisted  me 
to  mount  one  of  them;  then  he  leaped  upon 
the  other,  simply  placing  one  hand  upon  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle.  He  pressed  his  knees 
against  the  horse's  flanks  and  dropped  the 
reins;  the  beast  started  off  like  an  arrow. 
Mine,  whose  bridle  he  held,  also  fell  into  a 
gallop  and  kept  pace  with  him.  We  devoured 
the  road;  the  ground  glided  away  beneath  our 
feet,  gray  and  streaked;  and  the  black  silhou- 
ettes of  the  trees  fled  like  an  army  in  full 
retreat.  We  passed  through  a  forest  so  in- 
tensely dark   and   so   icy  chill    that   I   felt  a 

1208] 


Theophile  Gautier 


shudder  of  superstitious  terror  run  through  my 
body.  The  sparks  that  our  horses'  shoes 
struck  upon  the  stones  left  a  trail  of  fire  as  it 
were  behind  us  as  we  passed;  and  if  any  one 
had  seen  my  guide  and  myself,  at  that  hour 
of  the  night,  he  would  have  taken  us  for  two 
spectres  riding  upon  nightmares.  Will-o'- 
the-wisps  crossed  the  road  from  time  to  time 
and  the  jackdaws  shrieked  fearsomely  in  the 
dense  woods,  where  at  intervals  we  saw  the 
gleam  of  the  phosphorescent  eyes  of  wildcats. 
The  manes  of  the  horses  tossed  more  and 
more  wildly,  the  sweat  poured  down  their 
sides,  and  their  breath  came  through  their 
nostrils  hard  and  fast.  But  when  he  saw 
them  losing  heart,  the  guide,  to  encourage 
them,  uttered  a  guttural  cry  in  which  there 
was  nothing  human,  and  they  resumed  their 
frenzied  course.  At  last  the  whirlwind  paused ; 
a  black  mass,  with  points  of  light  here  and 
there,  suddenly  reared  itself  before  us;  the 
hoofs  of  our  beasts  rang  out  more  loudly 
upon  a  strong  wooden  drawbridge,  and  we 

[204] 


The   Dead   Leman 


rode  beneath  an  arch  which  darkly  yawned 
between  two  enormous  towers. 

Intense  excitement  reigned  in  the  palace; 
servants  were    crossing   the   courtyard  in  all 
directions,  with  torches  in  their  bands,  and 
lights  ascended  and  descended  from  landing  to 
landing.     I  caught  a  confused  glimpse  of  huge 
masses  of  masonry,  of  columns,  arcades,  stair- 
cases  and   balustrades  —  a  riotous  luxury  of 
construction,   altogether   regal   and    fabulous. 
A  negro  page,  the  same  who  had  handed  me 
Clarimonde's   tablets   and  whom    I   instantly 
recognised,  assisted  me  to  dismount,  and  the 
majordomo,   dressed  in  black  velvet,  with  a 
gold  chain  about  his  neck  and  an  ivory  cane 
in  his  hand,  came  forward  to  meet  me.     Great 
tears  streamed  from  his  eyes  and  rolled  down 
his  cheeks  to  his  white  beard.      "Too  late!  " 
he   cried,    shaking  his   head;  "too   late,   sir 
priest!     But  although  you  have  not  been  able 
to  save  the  soul,  come  and  keep  vigil  over  the 
poor  body." 

He  took  my  arm  and  led  me   to  the  hall 

(206] 


Theophile  Gautier 


of  death ;  I  wept  as  bitterly  as  he,  for  I  un- 
derstood that  the  dead  woman  was  no  other 
than  that  Clarimonde  whom  I  had  loved 
so  fondly  and  so  madly.  A  prie-dieu  was 
placed  beside  the  bed;  a  bluish  flame,  flicker- 
ing in  a  bronze  patera,  cast  a  wan  and  de- 
ceptive light  about  the  room,  and  here  and 
there  caused  some  protruding  decoration  of  a 
piece  of  furniture  or  a  cornice  to  twinkle  in 
the  darkness.  On  the  table,  in  a  carved  vase, 
was  a  faded  white  rose,  whose  leaves,  with 
the  exception  of  a  single  one  which  still 
clung  to  the  stalk,  had  all  fallen  at  the  foot 
of  the  vase,  like  odorous  tears;  a  broken 
black  masque,  a  fan,  and  disguises  of  all  sorts, 
were  lying  about  on  the  chairs,  and  showed 
that  death  had  appeared  in  that  sumptu- 
ous abode  unexpectedly  and  unannounced. 
I  knelt,  not  daring  to  turn  my  eyes  towards 
the  bed,  and  I  began  to  recite  the  Psalms 
with  great  fervour,  thanking  God  that  he 
had  placed  the  grave  between  the  thought 
of  that  woman  and  myself,  so  that  1  might 

I206J 


The   Dead   Leman 


add  to  my  prayers  her  name,  thenceforth 
sanctified.  But  gradually  that  burst  o;  en- 
thusiasm subsided  and  1  fell  into  a  revery. 
That  room  had  nothing  of  the  aspect  of  a 
chamber  of  death.  Instead  of  the  fetid  and 
cadaverous  air  which  I  was  accustomed  to 
breathe  in  such  death-vigils,  a  languorous 
vapour  of  Oriental  essences,  an  indefmable 
amorous  odour  of  woman,  floated  softly  in  the 
warm  air.  That  pale  gleam  had  rather  the 
aspect  of  a  subdued  light  purposely  arranged 
for  purposes  of  pleasure,  than  of  the  yellow 
night-light  which  flickers  beside  corpses. 
1  mused  upon  the  strange  chance  which  had 
led  me  to  Clarimonde  at  the  very  moment 
that  1  lost  her  forever,  and  a  sigh  of  regret 
escaped  from  my  breast.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  an  answering  sigh  behind  me, 
and  1  involuntarily  turned.  It  was  the  echo. 
In  that  movement  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  bed 
of  death,  which  they  had  thus  far  avoided. 
The  curtains  of  red  damask  with  large  flowers, 
looped  back  by  golden  tassels,  revealed  the 

[swr] 


Theophile  Gautier 


dead  woman  lying  at  full  length,  her  hands 
clasped  upon  her  breast.  She  was  covered 
with  a  linen  veil  of  dazzling  whiteness,  of 
which  the  dark  purple  of  the  hangings  height- 
ened the  effect,  and  of  such  fineness  that  it 
did  not  at  all  conceal  the  charming  outlines  of 
her  body,  and  enabled  me  to  follow  those 
lovely  lines,  as  undulating  as  the  neck  of  a 
swan,  which  death  itself  had  not  been  able 
to  stiffen.  She  was  like  an  alabaster  statue 
made  by  some  clever  sculptor  to  place  upon 
the  tomb  of  a  queen,  or  like  a  slumbering 
maiden  upon  whom  snow  had  fallen. 

I  could  endure  it  no  longer;  that  voluptu- 
ous atmosphere  intoxicated  me,  that  feverish 
odour  of  half-withered  roses  went  to  my 
brain,  and  I  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth, 
pausing  at  every  turn  beside  the  platform  of 
the  bed  to  gaze  upon  the  lovely  dead  wo- 
man beneath  her  transparent  winding-sheet. 
Strange  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind; 
I  imagined  that  she  was  not  really  dead,  and 
that  it  was  only  a  feint  to  which  she  had 

[2081 


The   Dead   Leman 


resorted  to  lure  me  to  her  palace,  and  to 
tell  me  of  her  love.  For  an  instant,  1  even 
thought  that  1  saw  her  foot  move  under  the 
white  veil,  and  disarrange  the  smooth  folds 
of  the  shroud. 

And  then  I  said  to  myself:  "  is  this  really 
Clarimonde  ?  What  proof  have  I  of  it  ?  May 
not  that  black  page  have  entered  the  service 
of  another  woman  ?  I  am  very  foolish  to 
despair  thus  and  to  become  so  excited." 
But  my  heart  replied  with  a  throb:  "It  is 
really  she;  it  is  really  she."  I  drew  near  the 
bed  and  gazed  with  redoubled  attention  upon 
the  object  of  my  uncertainty.  Shall  I  con- 
fess it  to  you  ?  That  perfection  of  form, 
although  purified  and  sanctified  by  the  shadow 
of  death,  aroused  my  senses  more  than  it 
should  have  done;  and  that  repose  was  so  like 
sleep  that  any  one  might  have  been  deceived. 
I  forgot  that  I  had  come  there  to  perform  a 
solemn  duty,  and  I  fancied  that  I  was  a  young 
bridegroom,  entering  the  bedroom  of  his  be- 
trothed, who  conceals  her  face,  from  modesty, 
«4  l^] 


Theophile  Gautier 


and  refuses  to  allow  him  to  see  her  features. 
Heartbroken  with  grief,  beside  myself  with 
joy,  quivering  with  dread  and  with  pleasure, 
1  leaned  over  her  and  seized  the  upper  corner 
of  the  sheet;  I  raised  it  slowly,  holding  my 
breath  for  fear  of  waking  her.  My  pulses 
throbbed  with  such  force  that  I  felt  the  blood 
hissing  through  my  temples,  and  my  forehead 
dripped  with  perspiration,  as  if  I  had  lifted 
a  marble  flagstone,  it  was  in  very  truth 
Clarimonde,  as  I  had  seen  her  in  the  church 
at  the  time  of  my  ordination;  she  was  as 
fascinating  as  then,  and,  in  her,  death  seemed 
but  an  additional  coquetry.  The  pallor  of 
her  cheeks,  the  less  vivid  red  of  her  lips,  her 
long  lashes,  downcast  and  standing  out  with 
their  dark  fringe  against  that  white  flesh, 
imparted  to  her  face  an  expression  of  chaste 
melancholy  and  of  pensive  suffering,  whose 
power  of  seduction  was  immeasurable;  her 
long  flowing  hair,  with  which  were  mingled 
still  a  few  small  blue  flowers,  made  a  pillow 
for  her  head  and  sheltered  with  its  curls  her 

C210J 


The   Dead    Leman 


bare  shoulders;  her  beautiful  hands,  purer  and 
more  transparent  than  the  consecrated  wafer, 
were  clasped  in  an  attitude  of  pious  rest 
and  silent  prayer,  which  neutralised  what 
there  might  have  been  too  alluring,  even  in 
death,  in  the  exquisite  roundness  and  ivory 
polish  of  her  arms,  from  which  the  pearl 
bracelets  had  not  been  removed,  1  stood 
for  a  long  while  absorbed  in  mute  contem- 
plation, and  the  more  1  gazed  at  her,  the  less 
1  could  believe  that  life  had  abandoned  that 
lovely  body  forever.  I  know  not  whether  it 
was  an  illusion  or  a  reflection  of  the  lamp, 
but  one  would  have  said  that  the  blood  began 
to  circulate  anew  beneath  that  lifeless  pallor; 
however,  she  continued  absolutely  motion- 
less. I  touched  her  arm  lightly;  it  was  cold, 
but  no  colder  than  her  hand  on  the  day 
that  it  had  touched  mine  beneath  the  church 
porch.  I  resumed  my  position,  bending  my 
face  over  hers,  and  letting  the  warm  dew  of 
my  tears  rain  upon  her  cheeks.  Ah!  what  .i 
bitter  sensation  of  despair  and   helplessness! 

[211) 


Theophile  Gautier 


What  a  period  of  agony  was  that  vigil!  I 
would  have  been  glad  to  be  able  to  collect 
my  life  in  a  pile,  in  order  to  give  it  to  her,  and 
to  breathe  upon  her  chill  remains  the  flame 
that  consumed  me.  The  night  was  passing, 
and  realising  that  the  moment  of  eternal 
separation  was  drawing  nigh,  1  could  not 
deny  myself  the  melancholy  and  supreme 
pleasure  of  imprinting  a  kiss  upon  the  dead  lips 
of  her  who  had  had  all  my  love.  Oh,  miracle! 
a  faint  breath  mingled  with  mine,  and  Clari- 
monde's  lips  responded  to  the  pressure  of 
mine;  her  eyes  opened  and  took  on  a  little 
life,  she  heaved  a  sigh,  and  unclasping  her 
hands,  she  put  her  arms  about  my  neck  with 
an  expression  of  ineffable  rapture. 

"Ah!  is  it  thou,  Romuald?"  she  said  in 
a  voice  as  languishing  and  sweet  as  the 
dying  vibrations  of  a  harp;  "what  art  thou 
doing,  pray  ?  I  waited  for  thee  so  long  that 
I  am  dead;  but  now  we  are  betrothed,  and  I 
shall  be  able  to  see  thee  and  to  come  to  thee. 
Adieu,  Romuald,  adieu!  I  love  thee;  that  is 


The   Dead   Leman 


all  that  1  wished  to  say  to  thee,  and  1  give 
thee  back  the  life  to  which  thou  hast  recalled 
me  for  an  instant  by  thy  kiss;  we  shall  soon 
meet  again." 

Her  head  fell  back,  but  she  kept  her  arms 
about  me  as  if  to  detain  me.  A  tierce  gust 
of  wind  blew  the  window  in  and  entered  the 
room;  the  last  leaf  of  the  white  rose  fluttered 
a  little  longer,  like  a  wing,  on  the  end  of 
the  stalk,  then  became  detached  and  tlew 
away  through  the  open  window,  carrying 
with  it  Clarimonde's  soul.  The  lamp  went 
out,  and  I  fell  unconscious  on  the  dead 
woman's  bosom. 

When  I  returned  to  myself,  I  was  lying  in 
my  bed,  in  my  little  room  at  the  presbytery, 
and  the  former  cure's  old  dog  was  licking  my 
hand,  which  lay  upon  the  coverlet.  Barbara 
was  bustling  about  the  room  with  a  senile 
trembling,  opening  and  closing  drawers,  or 
stirring  powders  in  glasses.  When  she  saw 
me  open  my  eyes,  the  old  woman  uttered 
a  joyful  cry,  the  dog  yelped  and  wagged  his 

{213] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


tail;  but  I  was  still  so  weak  that  I  could  not 
utter  a  single  word,  nor  make  a  single  move- 
ment. Afterwards  1  learned  that  I  had  been 
three  days  in  that  condition,  giving  no  other  sign 
of  life  than  an  almost  imperceptible  breathing. 
Those  three  days  do  not  count  in  my  life,  and 
I  know  not  where  my  mind  had  journeyed 
during  all  that  time;  I  have  no  recollection 
whatever  of  it.  Barbara  told  me  that  the  same 
man  with  the  copper-coloured  complexion, 
who  had  come  to  fetch  me  during  the  night, 
had  brought  me  back  in  the  morning  in  a 
closed  litter  and  had  gone  away  immediately. 
As  soon  as  I  could  collect  my  thoughts,  I 
reviewed  all  the  incidents  of  that  fatal  night. 
At  first  I  thought  that  I  had  been  the  play- 
thing of  some  trick  of  magic;  but  real  and 
palpable  circumstances  soon  dispelled  that 
theory.  I  could  not  believe  that  I  had  dreamed, 
for  Barbara  had  seen  as  well  as  I  the  man  with 
the  black  horses,  whose  costume  and  appear- 
ance she  described  exactly.  But  no  one  knew 
of  any  castle  in  the  neighbourhood  answer- 

1214] 


The   Dead   Leman 


ing  to  the  description  of  that  where  I  had 
seen  Clarimonde. 

One  morning  I  saw  the  Abbe  Serapion  enter 
my  room.  Barbara  had  written  him  that  I 
was  ill,  and  he  had  hastened  to  me  at  once. 
Although  that  zeal  denoted  interest  and  affec- 
tion for  my  person,  his  visit  did  not  cause 
me  the  pleasure  which  it  should  have  done. 
There  was  in  the  Abbe  Serapion's  glance  a 
penetrating  and  searching  expression  which 
embarrassed  me.  1  felt  ill  at  ease  and  guilty 
in  his  presence.  He  had  been  the  first  to 
discover  my  inward  distress,  and  I  was 
angry  with  him  for  his  clairvoyance. 

While  he  asked  me  about  my  health  in  a 
hypocritically  sweet  tone,  he  fixed  his  yellow 
lion-eyes  upon  me,  and  plunged  his  glance 
into  my  very  soul,  like  a  sounding-lead.  Then 
he  asked  me  some  questions  as  to  the  way  in 
which  I  performed  my  duties,  whether  1 
enjoyed  them,  how  I  passed  the  time  which 
my  ministry  left  at  my  disposal,  whether  1 
had    made    any    acquaintances    among    the 

[2151 


Theophile  Gautier 


people  of  the  parish,  what  my  favourite  books 
were,  and  a  thousand  other  similar  details. 
I  answered  as  briefly  as  possible,  and  he  him- 
self, without  waiting  for  me  to  finish  my 
answer,  passed  to  another  subject.  This 
conversation  evidently  had  no  connection 
with  what  he  desired  to  say.  At  last,  with- 
out any  prelude,  and  as  if  it  were  a  piece  of 
news  which  he  recalled  at  the  moment  and 
which  he  was  afraid  of  forgetting,  he  said  to 
me  in  a  clear  and  vibrating  voice,  which  rang 
in  my  ear  like  the  trumpets  of  the  Last  Judg- 
ment: 

"The  famous  courtesan  Clarimonde  died 
recently,  as  the  result  of  an  orgy  which  lasted 
eight  days  and  eight  nights.  It  was  some- 
thing infernally  magnificent.  They  revived 
the  abominations  of  the  feasts  of  Belshazzar 
and  Cleopatra.  Great  God!  what  an  age  this 
is  in  which  we  live!  The  guests  were  served 
by  swarthy  slaves  speaking  an  unknown 
tongue,  who  to  my  mind  had  every  appear- 
ance of  veritable  demons;  the  livery  of  the 

[8161 


The   Dead   Leman 


meanest  among  them  might  have  served  as 
a  gala-costume  for  an  emperor.  There  have 
always  been  current  some  very  strange  stories 
concerning  this  Clarimonde,  and  all  her  lovers 
have  come  to  a  miserable  or  a  violent  end. 
It  has  been  said  that  she  was  a  ghoul,  a  female 
vampire;  but  1  believe  that  she  was  Beelzebub 
in  person," 

He  ceased  to  speak  and  watched  me  more 
closely  than  ever,  to  see  what  effect  his 
words  had  produced  upon  me.  1  was  unable 
to  refrain  from  a  movement  when  he  men- 
tioned Clarimonde's  name,  and  the  news  of 
her  death,  in  addition  to  the  pain  that  it 
caused  me  by  reason  of  its  extraordinary  co- 
incidence with  the  nocturnal  scene  which  I 
had  witnessed,  produced  within  me  a  confu- 
sion and  a  terror  which  appeared  upon  my 
face,  strive  as  1  would  to  control  it.  Serapion 
cast  an  anxious  and  stern  glance  at  me;  then 
he  said: 

"  My  son,  I  must  warn  you  that  you  are 
standing  on  the  brink  of  an  abyss;    beware 


Theophile  Gautier 


lest  you  fall  into  it.  Satan's  claws  are  long, 
and  the  grave  is  not  always  trustworthy. 
Clarimonde's  tomb  should  be  sealed  with  a 
triple  seal;  for  this  is  not  the  first  time  that 
she  has  died,  so  it  is  said.  May  God  watch 
over  you,  Romuald! " 

Having  said  this,  Serapion  walked  slowly 
to  the  door,  and  I  saw  him  no  more;  for  he 
returned  to  S almost  immediately. 

I  was  entirely  restored  to  health  and  I  had 
resumed  my  usual  duties.  The  memory  of 
Clarimonde  and  the  old  abbe's  words  were 
always  present  in  my  mind;  but  nothing 
extraordinary  had  happened  to  confirm  the 
lugubrious  presentiments  of  Serapion,  and 
I  was  beginning  to  believe  that  his  fears  and 
my  own  terrors  were  exaggerated;  but  one 
night  I  had  a  dream.  I  had  hardly  imbibed 
the  first  mouthfuls  of  slumber  when  1  heard 
the  curtains  of  my  bed  open  and  the  rings 
slide  upon  the  rod  with  a  loud  noise;  I  in- 
stantly raised  myself  on  my  elbow,  and  1  saw 
a  female  figure  standing  before  me.     1  recog- 

[218] 


The   Dead   Leman 


nised  Clarimonde  on  the  instant.  She  held  in 
her  hand  a  small  lamp  of  the  shape  of  those 
which  are  placed  in  tombs,  and  its  light  im- 
parted to  her  taper  fingers  a  pink  transparence 
which  extended  by  insensible  degrees  to  the 
opaque  and  milky  whiteness  of  her  bare  arm. 
Her  only  clothing  was  the  linen  winding- 
sheet  which  had  covered  her  upon  the  bed  of 
death,  the  folds  of  which  she  he'd  about  her 
breast  as  if  ashamed  of  being  so  scantily  clad; 
but  her  little  hand  did  not  suffice;  she  was  so 
white  that  the  colour  of  the  drapery  blended 
with  that  of  the  flesh  in  the  pale  light  of 
the  lamp.  Enveloped  in  that  subtle  tissue, 
which  revealed  the  whole  contour  of  her  body, 
she  resembled  a  marble  statue  of  a  woman 
bathing,  rather  than  a  real  woman  endowed 
with  life.  Dead  or  alive,  statue  or  woman, 
ghost  or  body,  her  beauty  was  still  the  same: 
but  the  green  splendour  of  her  eyes  was 
slightly  dimmed,  and  her  mouth,  formerly  so 
ruddy,  was  tinted  with  a  faint  tender  rosiness, 
almost  like  that  of  her  cheeks.     The  little  blue 


Theophile  Gautier 


flowers  which  I  had  noticed  in  her  hair  were 
entirely  withered  and  had  lost  almost  all  their 
petals;  all  of  which  did  not  prevent  her  from 
being  charming,  so  charming  that,  despite  the 
extraordinary  character  of  the  adventure,  and 
the  inexplicable  manner  in  which  she  had 
entered  my  room,  I  was  not  terrified  for  an 
instant. 

She  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table  and  seated 
herself  at  the  foot  of  my  bed ;  then,  leaning 
towards  me,  said  to  me  in  that  voice,  at  once 
silvery  and  soft  as  velvet,  which  I  have  never 
heard  from  other  lips: 

"I  have  kept  thee  long  in  waiting,  dear 
Romuald,  and  thou  mayst  well  have  thought 
that  I  had  forgotten  thee.  But  I  have  come 
from  a  long  distance  and  from  a  place  from 
which  no  one  has  ever  before  returned;  there 
is  neither  moon  nor  sun  in  the  country  from 
which  I  come;  there  is  naught  but  space  and 
shadow;  neither  road  nor  path;  no  ground 
for  the  foot,  no  air  for  the  wing;  and  yet  here 
I  am,  for  love  is  stronger  than  death,  and  it 

[■2Q0] 


The  Dead   Leman 


will  end  by  vanquishing  it.  Ah!  what  gloomy 
faces  and  what  terrible  things  I  have  seen 
in  my  journeying!  What  a  world  of  trouble 
my  soul,  returned  to  this  earth  by  the  power 
of  my  will,  has  had  in  finding  its  body  and 
reinstating  itself  therein !  What  mighty  efforts 
I  had  to  put  forth  before  1  could  raise  the  stone 
with  which  they  had  covered  me!  See!  the 
palms  of  my  poor  hands  are  all  blistered  from 
it.    Kiss  them  to  make  them  well,  dear  love!  " 

She  laid  the  cold  palms  of  her  hands  on 
my  mouth  one  after  the  other;  I  kissed  them 
again  and  again,  and  she  watched  me  with 
a  smile  of  ineffable  pleasure. 

To  my  shame  I  confess  that  1  had  totally  for- 
gotten the  Abbe  S^rapion's  warnings  and  my 
own  priestly  character.  I  fell  without  resist- 
ance and  at  the  first  assault.  1  did  not  even 
try  to  spurn  the  tempter;  the  coolness  of 
Clarimonde's  flesh  penetrated  mine,  and  1  felt 
a  voluptuous  tremor  pass  over  my  whole 
body. 

Poor  child!     Despite  all  I  have  seen,  I  still 

[221] 


Theophile  Gautier 


have  difficulty  in  believing  that  she  was  a 
demon;  at  all  events  she  had  not  the  aspect 
of  one,  and  Satan  never  concealed  his  claws 
and  his  horns  more  deftly.  She  had  drawn 
her  feet  up  beneath  her,  and  sat  thus  on  the 
edge  of  my  couch,  in  an  attitude  full  of  negli- 
gent coquetry.  From  time  to  time  she  passed 
her  little  hand  through  my  hair  and  twisted 
it  about  her  fingers,  as  if  to  try  the  effect  of 
new  methods  of  arranging  my  locks  about 
my  face.  I  allowed  her  to  do  it  with  the 
most  guilty  pleasure,  and  she  accompanied  it 
all  with  the  most  fascinating  prattle.  It  is  a 
lamentable  fact  that  I  felt  no  astonishment  at 
such  an  extraordinary  occurrence,  and,  with 
the  facility  with  which  one  in  a  dream  looks 
upon  the  most  unusual  events  as  perfectly 
simple,  I  saw  nothing  in  it  all  that  was  not 
quite  natural. 

'  I  loved  thee  a  long  while  ere  I  saw  thee, 
dear  Romuald,  and  I  sought  thee  every- 
where. Thou  wert  my  dream,  and  I  spied 
thee  in  the  church  at  the  fatal  moment.     I 

[222] 


The   Dead   Leman 


said  instantly:  'It  is  he!"  I  cast  a  glance  at 
thee,  in  which  I  put  all  the  love  that  I  had 
felt,  that  !  was  then  feeling,  and  that  I  was 
destined  to  feel  for  thee;  a  glance  to  lead  a 
cardinal  to  perdition,  to  force  a  king  to  kneel 
at  my  feet  before  his  whole  court.  Thou 
didst  remain  unmoved,  and  didst  prefer  thy 
God  to  me.  Ah!  how  jealous  I  am  of  God, 
whom  thou  lovedst  and  whom  thou  dost  still 
love  better  than  me!  Unhappy  woman,  un- 
happy woman  that  1  am!  I  shall  never  have 
thy  heart  all  to  myself,  1,  whom  thou  didst 
bring  back  to  life  with  thy  kiss;  dead  Clari- 
monde,  who  for  thy  sake  has  forced  the  doors 
of  the  tomb,  and  who  now  consecrates  to 
thee  a  life  which  she  has  resumed  only  to 
make  thee  happy!  " 

All  these  words  were  accompanied  by  mad- 
dening caresses  which  bewildered  my  senses 
and  my  reason  to  such  a  point  that  I  did  not 
shrink  from  uttering  a  horrible  blasphemy  to 
comfort  her,  and  from  telling  her  that  1  loved 
her  as  much  as  I  loved  God. 


Theophile  Gautier 


Her  eyes  recovered  their  fire  and  shone  like 
chrysoprases. 

"In  truth!  in  very  truth  Pas  much  as  God  ?" 
she  said,  flinging  her  lovely  arms  about  me. 
"Since  it  is  so,  thou  wilt  come  with  me, 
thou  wilt  follow  me  wherever  I  list.  Thou 
wilt  lay  aside  thy  ugly  black  garments,  thou 
shalt  be  my  lover.  To  be  the  acknowledged 
lover  of  Clarimonde,  who  has  refused  a  pope, 
is  magnificent!  Ah!  what  a  happy  life,  what 
a  lovely,  golden  life  we  will  lead!  When 
shall  we  start,  my  fair  sir  ?  " 

"To-morrow!  to-morrow!"  I  cried  in  my 
delirium. 

"To-morrow,  so  be  it,"  she  replied.  "I 
shall  have  time  to  change  my  dress,  for  this 
is  a  little  scanty  and  is  not  suited  for  travel- 
ling. I  must  also  go  and  notify  my  servants, 
who  really  believe  me  to  be  dead  and  who 
are  as  distressed  as  they  can  be.  Money, 
clothes,  carriages,  everything  will  be  ready, 
and  I  shall  call  for  thee  at  this  same  hour. 
Adieu,  dear  heart! " 

[884] 


The   Dead    Leman 


And  she  lightly  touched  my  forehead  with 
the  ends  of  her  lips.  The  lamp  went  out,  the 
curtains  closed  again,  and  I  saw  nothing  more; 
a  leaden,  dreamless  sleep  fell  upon  me,  and 
held  me  unconscious  until  the  morning.  I 
woke  later  than  usual,  and  the  recollection  of 
that  strange  vision  troubled  me  all  day;  I 
ended  by  persuading  myself  that  it  was 
naught  but  the  vapour  of  my  overheated 
imagination.  And  yet  the  sensation  had  been 
so  vivid  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  it 
was  not  real;  and  not  without  some  presenti- 
ment of  what  was  about  to  happen  did  1  re- 
tire, after  praying  God  to  put  away  from  me 
evil  thoughts  and  to  protect  the  chastity  of  my 
slumber. 

1  was  soon  sleeping  soundly,  and  my  dream 
was  continued.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
aside  and  1  beheld  Clarimonde,  not  as  before, 
pale  in  her  pale  winding-sheet,  and  with  the 
violet  hue  of  death  upon  her  cheeks,  but 
merry,  alert,  and  smartly  dressed,  in  a  magnifi- 
cent travelling-dress  of  green  velvet,  trimmed 

.5  I22ij 


Theophile  Gautier 


with  gold  lace  and  caught  up  at  the  side  to 
reveal  a  satin  petticoat.  Her  fair  hair  escaped 
in  huge  curls  from  beneath  a  broad-brimmed 
hat  of  black  felt  decorated  with  white  feathers 
capriciously  arranged;  she  held  in  her  hand  a 
little  riding-whip  with  a  gold  whistle  in  the 
handle.  She  tapped  me  lightly  with  it,  and 
said : 

"Well!  my  fine  sleeper,  is  this  the  way 
you  make  your  preparations  ?  I  expected  to 
find  you  on  your  feet.  Rise  at  once,  we  have 
no  time  to  lose." 

I  leaped  out  of  bed. 

"  Come,  dress  yourself  and  let  us  go,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  a  small  bundle  which  she 
had  brought;  "the  horses  are  impatient  and 
are  champing  their  bits  at  the  door.  We 
should  be  already  ten  leagues  away." 

I  dressed  myself  hastily  and  she  handed  me 
the  different  parts  of  my  costume,  bursting 
into  laughter  at  my  awkwardness,  and  indi- 
cating their  respective  uses  when  I  made  a 
mistake.     She  gave  a  twist  to  my  hair,  and 

[226] 


The   Dead   Leman 


when  it  was  done,  she  handed  me  a  little 
pocket-mirror  of  Venetian  crystal,  with  a  rim 
of  silver  filigree,  and  said  to  me: 

"  How  dost  find  thyself  now  ?  Wouldst 
care  to  take  me  into  thy  service  as  valet  ?" 

1  was  no  longer  the  same,  and  I  did  not 
know  myself.  I  resembled  myself  no  more 
than  a  finished  statue  resembles  a  block  of 
stone.  My  former  face  seemed  to  be  only 
the  rough  sketch  of  that  which  the  mirror 
reflected.  1  was  handsome,  and  my  vanity 
was  sensibly  tickled  by  the  metamorphosis. 
That  elegant  apparel,  that  richly  embroidered 
vest,  made  of  me  a  totally  different  person, 
and  I  marvelled  at  the  power  of  a  few  yards  of 
cloth  cut  in  a  certain  way.  The  spirit  of  my 
costume  penetrated  my  very  skin,  and  within 
ten  minutes  1  was  reasonably  conceited. 

i  walked  about  the  chamber  several  times 
to  give  myself  ease  of  manner.  Clarimonde 
watched  me  with  an  air  of  maternal  pleasure, 
and  appeared  well  satisfied  with  her  work. 

"We  have  had  enough  of  child's  play;  let 


Theophile  Gautier 


us  be  off,  Romuald  dear;  we  have  a  long  way 
to  go  and  we  shall  never  arrive." 

She  took  my  hand  and  led  me  away.  All 
the  doors  opened  before  her  as  soon  as  she 
touched  them,  and  we  passed  by  the  dog 
without  waking  him. 

At  the  gate  we  found  Margheritone;  he 
was  the  groom  who  had  escorted  me  be- 
fore; he  was  holding  three  horses,  black  like 
the  first  ones;  one  for  me,  one  for  Clarimonde, 
and  one  for  himself.  Those  horses  must  have 
been  Spanish  jennets,  born  of  mares  mated 
with  a  zephyr;  for  they  went  as  swiftly  as 
the  wind,  and  the  moon,  which  had  risen  at 
our  departure  to  give  us  light,  rolled  through 
the  sky  like  a  wheel  detached  from  its  carriage; 
we  saw  it  at  our  right,  jumping  from  tree  to 
tree,  and  panting  for  breath  as  it  ran  after  us. 
We  soon  reached  a  level  tract  where,  in  a 
clump  of  trees,  a  carriage  drawn  by  four  beau- 
tiful horses  awaited  us  ;  we  entered  it,  and 
the  postillions  urged  them  into  a  mad  gallop. 
I  had  one  arm  about  Clarimonde's  waist  and 

[228] 


The   Dead   Leman 


one  of  her  hands  clasped  in  mine;  she  rested 
her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  felt  her  bosom, 
half  bare,  pressing  against  my  arm.  1  had  never 
known  such  bliss.  1  forgot  everything  at  that 
moment,  and  1  no  more  remembered  that  1 
had  once  been  a  priest  than  I  remembered 
what  1  had  been  doing  in  my  mother's  womb, 
so  great  was  the  fascination  that  the  evil  spirit 
exerted  upon  me.  From  that  night  my  nature 
was  in  a  certain  sense  halved,  and  there  were 
within  me  two  men,  neither  of  whom  knew 
the  other.  Sometimes  I  fancied  myself  a 
priest  who  dreamed  every  night  he  was  a 
gentleman,  at  other  times  a  gentleman  who 
dreamed  he  was  a  priest.  I  could  no  longer 
distinguish  between  dreaming  and  waking, 
and  I  knew  not  where  reality  began  and  illu- 
sion ended.  The  conceited  and  dissipated 
young  nobleman  railed  at  the  priest;  the  priest 
loathed  the  debauchery  of  the  young  noble- 
man. Two  spirals  entangled  in  each  other 
and  inextricably  confounded  without  ever 
touching    would     represent    very    well    the 


Theophile  Gautier 


bicephalous  life  which  I  led.  Despite  the  ab- 
normality of  my  position,  I  do  not  think  that 
1  was  mad,  for  a  single  instant.  I  always 
retained  very  clearly  the  consciousness  of  my 
two  existences.  But  there  was  one  absurd 
fact  which  I  could  not  explain :  that  was  that 
the  consciousness  of  the  same  ego  could  exist 
in  two  men  so  entirely  different.  It  was 
an  anomaly  which  I  did  not  understand, 
whether  I  fancied  myself  the  cur6  of  the  little 

village  of  G ,  or  II  Signor  Romualdo,  the 

titled  lover  of  Clarimonde. 

However,  I  was,  or  at  least  I  fancied  that 
I  was,  at  Venice;  I  have  never  been  able 
to  distinguish  between  illusion  and  reality  in 
that  extraordinary  adventure.  We  occupied 
a  large  marble  palace  on  the  Canaleio,  filled 
with  frescoes  and  statues,  with  two  Titians, 
of  the  artist's  best  period,  in  Clarimonde's 
bedroom.  It  was  a  palace  worthy  of  a  king. 
We  had  each  our  gondola  and  our  boatmen 
in  our  livery,  our  music-hall,  and  our  poet. 
Clarimonde  had  a  magnificent  idea  of  life,  and 

[230] 


The  Dead   Leman 


she  had  a  touch  of  Cleopatra  in  her  nature. 
As  for  me,  1  cut  the  swath  of  a  prince's  son, 
and  I  raised  such  a  dust  as  if  1  had  belonged 
to  the  family  of  one  of  the  twelve  apostles 
or  of  the  four  evangelists  of  the  Most  Serene 
Republic;  1  would  not  have  turned  aside  from 
my  path  to  allow  the  Doge  to  pass,  and  I  do 
not  believe  that  since  Satan  fell  from  heaven, 
any  creature  was  ever  prouder  or  more  inso- 
lent than  I.  I  went  to  the  Ridotto,  and  I 
gambled  frantically.  1  consorted  with  the 
best  society  in  the  world,  ruined  sons  of  noble 
families,  actresses,  swindlers,  parasites,  and 
swashbucklers;  however,  despite  the  dissi- 
pated life  1  led,  I  remained  faithful  to  Clari- 
monde.  1  loved  her  wildly.  She  would 
have  excited  satiety  itself  and  chained  incon- 
stancy. To  have  Clarimonde  was  to  have 
twenty  mistresses,  she  was  so  mobile,  so 
changing,  and  so  unlike  herself;  a  very  cha- 
meleon! She  would  make  you  commit  with 
her  the  infidelity  you  might  have  committed 
with   others,    by    assuming   the   nature,    the 

[281] 


Theophile  Gautier 


manners,  and  the  style  of  beauty  of  the 
woman  who  seemed  to  please  you.  She  re- 
turned my  love  a  hundredfold;  and  in  vain 
did  young  patricians,  and  even  the  Ancients 
of  the  Council  of  Ten,  make  her  the  most 
magnificent  offers.  A  Foscari  even  went  so 
far  as  to  propose  to  marry  her;  but  she  refused 
everything.  She  had  money  enough;  she 
wanted  only  love,  a  pure,  youthful  love, 
inspired  by  herself,  which  should  be  a  first 
and  last  passion.  I  should  have  been  per- 
fectly happy  but  for  an  infernal  nightmare 
which  recurred  every  night,  and  in  which  I 
imagined  myself  a  village  cure,  macerating 
himself  and  doing  penance  for  my  orgies  dur- 
ing the  day.  Reassured  by  the  habit  of  being 
with  her,  1  hardly  ever  thought  of  the  strange 
way  in  which  I  had  made  Clarimonde's  ac- 
quaintance. However,  what  the  Abbe  Serapion 
had  said  returned  sometimes  to  my  memory 
and  never  failed  to  cause  me  uneasiness. 

For  some  time  Clarimonde's  health  had  be- 
come impaired;  her  bright  colour  faded  from 

[283] 


The    Dead    Leman 


day  to  day.  The  doctors  whom  I  summoned 
failed  utterly  to  understand  her  disease,  and 
they  had  no  idea  what  to  do.  They  pre- 
scribed some  insignificant  remedies  and  came 
no  more.  Meanwhile  she  turned  visibly 
paler,  and  became  colder  and  colder.  She 
was  almost  as  white  and  as  dead  as  on  that 
memorable  night  in  the  unknown  castle.  1 
was  in  despair  to  see  her  thus  slowly  fall 
away.  She,  touched  by  my  grief,  would 
smile  at  me  sweetly  and  sadly,  with  the  fate- 
ful smile  of  those  who  feel  that  they  must 
die. 

One  morning  I  was  seated  by  her  bed, 
breakfasting  at  a  small  table,  in  order  not  to 
leave  her  for  an  instant.  As  1  was  cutting 
some  fruit,  1  accidently  made  a  deep  gash  in 
my  tlnger.  The  blood  immediately  gushed 
forth  in  a  purple  jet,  and  a  few  drops  spurted 
upon  Clarimonde.  Her  eyes  flashed  and  her 
face  assumed  an  expression  of  tierce  and 
savage  joy  which  I  had  never  before  seen 
upon  it.     She  jumped  out   of  bed  with  the 

[233] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


agility  of  a  monkey  or  a  cat,  and  pounced 
upon  my  wound,  which  she  began  to  suck 
with  an  expression  of  unutterable  pleasure. 
She  swallowed  the  blood  in  little  mouthfuls, 
slowly  and  gloatingly,  as  a  gourmand  sips 
a  wine  of  Xeres  or  of  Syracuse;  she  half 
closed  her  green  eyes,  and  the  lids  about  them 
became  oblong  instead  of  round.  From  time 
to  time  she  paused  in  order  to  kiss  my  hand, 
then  pressed  her  lips  once  more  to  the  lips  of 
the  wound,  to  coax  forth  a  few  more  red 
drops.  When  she  found  that  no  more  blood 
came,  she  stood  erect  with  liquid  and  gleam- 
ing eyes,  rosier  than  a  May  dawn;  her  face 
full  and  fresh,  her  hand  warm  and  moist, — 
in  fine,  lovelier  than  ever  and  in  the  most 
perfect  health. 

"  I  shall  not  die!  I  shall  not  die!  "  she  ex- 
claimed, half  mad  with  joy  and  clinging  to 
my  neck;  "  1  shall  be  able  to  love  thee  for  a 
long  time  to  come.  My  life  is  in  thine,  and 
all  that  is  of  me  comes  from  thee.  A  few 
drops   of  thy   rich   and    noble   blood,    more 

[284] 


The   Dead   Leman 


precious  and  more  potent  than  all  the  elixirs 
of  the  world,  have  restored  me  to  life." 

This  scene  engrossed  my  thoughts  for  a 
long  while  and  aroused  within  me  strange 
doubts  concerning  Clarimonde;  and  that  same 
night,  when  sleep  had  taken  me  back  to  my 
presbytery,  1  saw  the  Abbe  S^rapion,  more 
grave  and  more  anxious  than  ever.  He  gazed 
at  me  attentively  and  said: 

"Not  content  with  losing  your  soul,  you 
propose  to  destroy  your  body.  Wretched 
young  man,  into  what  a  snare  have  you 
fallen!" 

The  tone  in  which  he  said  these  few  words 
impressed  me  deeply;  but  despite  his  earnest- 
ness, that  impression  soon  vanished  and  a 
thousand  other  preoccupations  blotted  it  from 
my  mind.  But  one  evening  1  saw  in  my 
mirror,  the  treacherous  position  of  which  she 
had  not  reckoned  upon,  Clarimonde  pour  a 
powder  into  the  cup  of  spiced  wine  which 
she  was  accustomed  to  prepare  after  our 
dinner.     I  took  the  cup,   I  pretended  to  put 


Theophile  Gautier 


my  lips  to  it,  then  placed  it  upon  some  piece 
of  furniture,  as  if  to  finish  it  later  at  my 
leisure;  and  taking  advantage  of  a  moment 
when  she  had  her  back  turned,  1  tossed  the 
contents  under  the  table;  after  which  I  with- 
drew to  my  apartment  and  went  to  bed, 
fully  determined  not  to  go  to  sleep  and  to 
see  what  it  all  meant.  1  did  not  wait  long; 
Clarimonde  entered  in  her  night-robe,  and, 
having  cast  it  aside,  knelt  beside  my  bed. 
When  she  was  fully  assured  that  I  was  asleep, 
she  bared  my  arm  and  drew  a  gold  pin  from 
her  hair;  then  she  murmured  in  a  low  voice: 
"One  drop,  just  one  little  red  drop,  one 
ruby  at  the  end  of  my  pin!  Since  thou  dost 
still  love  me,  I  must  not  die.  Ah!  poor  love! 
I  will  drink  his  noble  blood,  his  brilliant  purple 
blood.  Sleep,  my  only  treasure,  sleep,  my 
god,  my  child!  I  will  not  hurt  thee,  I  will 
take  of  thy  life  only  what  is  necessary  to 
prevent  mine  from  departing.  If  1  did  not 
love  thee  so  dearly  1  might  determine  to  have 
other  lovers  upon  whose  veins  I  might  draw; 

[836] 


The   Dead   Leman 


but  since  I  have  known  thee  I  have  held  all 
the  world  in  horror.  Ah!  the  lovely  arm! 
how  round  it  is!  and  how  white!  I  shall 
never  dare  to  prick  that  pretty  blue  vein." 

And  as  she  said  this  she  wept,  and  1  felt 
her  tears  raining  upon  my  arm,  as  she  clasped  it 
in  her  hands.  At  last  she  made  up  her  mind, 
made  a  little  prick  with  her  pin,  and  began 
to  suck  the  blood  that  flowed  from  it.  Al- 
though she  had  drunk  but  a  few  drops,  the 
fear  of  exhausting  me  seized  her,  and  she 
carefully  wrapped  around  my  arm  a  little 
bandage,  afterward  rubbing  the  wound  with 
an  unguent  which  cicatrised  it  instantly. 

I  could  doubt  no  longer.  The  Abbe  Se- 
rapion  was  right.  However,  despite  that 
certainty,  I  could  not  help  loving  Clarimonde, 
and  1  would  gladly  have  given  her  all  the 
blood  that  she  needed  to  sustain  her  factitious 
life.  Besides,  I  was  not  much  afraid;  the 
woman  reassured  me  concerning  the  vam- 
pire, and  what  1  had  heard  and  seen  set  my 
mind  at  rest;  in  those  days  my  veins  were 

[237] 


Theophile  Gautier 


richly  supplied,  and  could  not  be  easily  ex- 
hausted, and  I  would  not  haggle  for  my  life 
drop  by  drop.  I  would  have  opened  my 
arm  myself  and  have  said  to  her:  "Drink! 
and  let  my  love  infuse  itself  into  thy  body 
with  my  blood!  "  I  carefully  avoided  making 
the  slightest  allusion  to  the  narcotic  which 
she  had  poured  out  for  me,  or  to  the  scene 
of  the  pin,  and  we  lived  in  the  most  absolute 
harmony. 

Yet  my  priestly  scruples  tormented  me 
more  than  ever,  and  I  did  not  know  what 
new  maceration  to  invent,  to  punish  and 
mortify  my  flesh.  Although  all  these  visions 
were  involuntary  and  I  had  no  share  in  bring- 
ing them  about,  I  dared  not  touch  the  Christ 
with  hands  so  impure,  and  with  a  mind 
sullied  by  such  debauchery,  real  or  dreamed. 
To  avoid  the  recurrence  of  these  fatiguing 
hallucinations,  I  tried  to  keep  from  sleeping; 
I  held  my  eyelids  open  with  my  fingers,  and 
I  stood  against  the  wall,  struggling  against 
sleep  with   all  my  might;   but   the   sand   of 

[238] 


The  Dead   Leman 


drowsiness  soon  entered  my  eyes,  and,  seeing 
that  it  was  useless  to  struggle,  I  would  drop 
my  arms  in  discouragement  and  weariness, 
and  the  current  would  sweep  me  away  to- 
wards my  perfidious  dreams. 

S6rapion  exhorted  me  most  vehemently, 
and  reproached  me  severely  for  my  listless- 
ness  and  my  lack  of  fervour.  One  day,  when 
I  had  been  more  agitated  than  usual,  he  said 
to  me : 

"To  rid  you  of  this  obsession,  there  is 
but  one  means,  and,  although  it  is  an  ex- 
treme means,  we  must  resort  to  it;  great  evils 
demand  heroic  remedies.  I  know  where 
Clarimonde  is  buried;  we  must  disinter  her, 
so  that  you  may  see  in  what  a  pitiful  plight 
the  object  of  your  love  is;  you  will  be 
tempted  no  more  to  imperil  your  soul  for  a 
disgusting  corpse,  devoured  by  worms  and 
ready  to  crumble  to  dust;  that  sight  will 
assuredly  cause  you  to  reflect." 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  so  wearied  of  that 
double  life  that  I  assented,  desiring  to  know 

[288] 


Theophile  Gautier 


once  for  all  whether  the  priest  or  the  noble- 
man was  the  dupe  of  a  delusion;  I  was  de- 
termined to  kill,  for  the  benefit  of  the  other, 
one  of  the  two  men  who  lived  in  me,  or  to 
kill  them  both  ;  for  such  a  life  could  not 
last. 

Abb6  Serapion  provided  himself  with  a  mat- 
tock, a  lever,  and  a  lantern,  and  at  midnight 

we  betook  ourselves  to  the  cemetery  of , 

of  which  he  knew  perfectly  the  location  and 
the  arrangement.  After  turning  the  light 
of  the  dark  lantern  upon  the  inscriptions  of 
several  tombs,  we  reached  at  last  a  stone,  half 
hidden  by  tall  grass,  and  devoured  by  mosses 
and  parasitic  plants,  upon  which  we  deci- 
phered the  opening  lines  of  the  epitaph: 

"  Here  lies  Clarimonde 
Who  was  famed  in  her  lifetime 
As  the  fairest  of  women " 

"Here  is  the  place,"  said  Serapion;  and 
putting  his  lantern  on  the  ground,  he  inserted 
the  lever  in  the  interstice  between  the 
stones  and  began  to  pry.     The  stone  yielded, 

[240] 


The   Dead    Leman 


and  he  set  to  work  with  his  mattock.  For 
my  part,  I  watched  him,  more  gloomy  and  si- 
lent than  the  night  itself;  meanwhile  he,  bend- 
ing over  his  ghastly  task,  was  dripping  with 
perspiration,  and  his  hurried  breath  was  like 
the  rattle  of  a  dying  man.  It  was  an  extraor- 
dinary spectacle,  and  whoever  had  seen  us 
from  without  would  have  taken  us  for  pro- 
fane robbers  of  graves  rather  than  for  priests 
of  God.  There  was  something  stern  and  sav- 
age in  S(^rapion's  ardour,  which  made  him 
resemble  a  demon  rather  than  an  apostle  or 
an  angel;  and  his  face,  with  its  large,  stern 
features  sharply  outlined  by  the  light  of  the 
lantern,  was  in  no  wise  reassuring.  1  felt  an 
icy  sweat  upon  my  limbs,  and  my  hair  stood 
painfully  erect  upon  my  head;  in  the  inmost 
depths  of  my  heart,  I  looked  upon  the  pitiless 
S6rapion's  act  as  an  outrageous  sacrilege,  and 
I  would  have  been  glad  if  a  triangle  of  fire  had 
come  forth  from  the  dark  clouds  that  moved 
slowly  over  our  heads  and  had  reduced  him  to 
dust.  The  owls  perched  upon  the  cypresses, 
a6  [>»i] 


Theophile  Gautier 


disturbed  by  the  light  of  the  lantern,  beat 
heavily  against  the  glass  with  their  dusty 
wings,  uttering  plaintive  cries;  wild  foxes 
yelped  in  the  distance,  and  a  thousand  sinister 
noises  detached  themselves  from  the  silence. 
At  last  S6rapion's  mattock  came  in  contact 
with  the  coffm,  the  boards  of  which  resounded 
with  a  deep,  sonorous  sound,  with  that  terri- 
ble sound  nothing  utters  when  stricken.  He 
drew  back  the  lid,  and  I  saw  Clarimonde,  pale 
as  a  marble  statue,  with  clasped  hands;  her 
white  winding-sheet  covered  her  in  a  single 
fold  from  head  to  feet.  A  tiny  little  drop 
showed  like  a  rose  in  the  corner  of  her  leaden- 
hued  lips.  Sdrapion,  at  that  sight,  flew  into  a 
rage. 

"  Ah  I  there  you  are,  demon,  shameless 
courtesan,  drinker  of  blood  and  gold!"  And 
he  drenched  with  holy-water  the  body  in  the 
coffin,  upon  which  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  with  his  sprinkler.  Poor  Clarimonde 
was  no  sooner  touched  by  the  blessed  spray 
than  her  beautiful  body  crumbled  into  dust; 

[843] 


The   Dead   Leman 


there  was  nothing  left  but  a  ghastly,  shapeless 
mass  of  cinders  and  of  half-calcined  bones. 

"  Behold  your  mistress,  my  Lord  Romuald !  " 
cried  the  inexorable  priest,  pointing  to  the  sad 
remains;  "shall  you  be  tempted  again  to 
promenade  on  the  Lido  or  at  Fusina  with  your 
beauty  ? " 

1  hung  my  head;  a  great  catastrophe  had 
taken  place  within  me.  I  returned  to  my 
presbytery,  and  Lord  Romuald,  Clarimonde's 
lover,  parted  from  the  poor  priest,  with  whom 
he  had  maintained  such  a  strange  companion- 
ship for  so  long.  But  the  following  night  1 
saw  Clarimonde;  she  said  to  me  as  she  said 
the  first  time,  in  the  church  porch:  "Un- 
happy man  !  Unhappy  man!  What  hast 
thou  done?  Why  didst  thou  listen  to  that 
foolish  priest  ?  Wert  thou  not  happy  ?  And 
what  had  I  done  to  thee  that  thou  shouldst 
violate  my  poor  grave  and  lay  bare  the  shame 
of  my  nothingness.?  All  communication  be- 
tween our  souls  and  our  bodies  is  broken 
henceforth.     Adieu!  thou  wilt  yet  regret  me." 


Theophile  Gautier 


She  vanished  in  the  air  like  smoke,  and  I 
never  saw  her  again. 

Alas!  she  told  the  truth.  I  have  regretted 
her  more  than  once,  and  I  regret  her  still. 
My  soul's  peace  was  purchased  very  dearly; 
the  love  of  God  was  none  too  much  to  re- 
place hers.  Such,  brother,  is  the  story  of  my 
youth.  Never  look  upon  a  woman,  and  walk 
abroad  always  with  your  eyes  on  the  ground; 
for,  however  chaste  and  watchful  you  may 
be,  the  error  of  a  single  moment  is  enough 
to  cause  you  to  lose  eternity. 

1836. 


[a44) 


The  Nest  of  Nightingales 


[na] 


The  Nest  of  Nightingales 

ABOUT  the  chateau  there  was  a  beautiful 
park. 

In  the  park  there  were  birds  of  all  kinds; 
nightingales,  blackbirds,  and  linnets;  all  the 
birds  of  earth  had  made  a  rendezvous  of  the 
park. 

In  the  spring  there  was  such  an  uproar  that 
one  could  not  hear  one's  self  talk;  every  leaf 
concealed  a  nest,  every  tree  was  an  orchestra. 
All  the  little  feathered  musicians  vied  with  one 
another  in  melodious  contest.  Some  chirped, 
others  cooed;  some  performed  trills  and  pearly 
cadences,  others  executed  bravura  passages 
and  elaborate  flourishes;  genuine  musicians 
could  not  have  done  so  well. 

But  in  the  chateau  there  were  two  fair  cous- 
ins who  sang  better  than  all  the  birds  in  the 
park;  Fleurette  was  the  name  of  one,  and  Isa- 
bcau  that  of  the  other.    Both  were  lovely,  ailur- 

[847] 


Theophile  Gautier 


ing,  and  in  good  case;  and  on  Sundays,  when 
they  wore  their  fine  clothes,  if  their  white 
shoulders  had  not  proved  that  they  were  real 
maidens,  one  might  have  taken  them  for  an- 
gels; they  lacked  only  wings.  When  they 
sang,  old  Sire  de  Maulevrier,  their  uncle, 
sometimes  held  their  hands,  for  fear  that  they 
might  take  it  into  their  heads  to  fly  away. 

1  leave  you  to  imagine  the  gallant  lance- 
thrusts  that  were  exchanged  at  tournaments 
and  carrousels  in  honour  of  Fleurette  and  Isa- 
beau.  Their  reputation  for  beauty  and  talent 
had  made  the  circuit  of  Europe,  and  yet  they 
were  none  the  prouder  for  it;  they  lived  in  re- 
tirement, seeing  almost  nobody  save  the  little 
page  Valentin,  a  pretty,  fair-haired  child,  and 
Sire  de  Maulevrier,  a  hoary-headed  old  man, 
all  tanned  by  the  sun,  and  worn  out  by  having 
borne  his  war-harness  sixty  years. 

They  passed  their  time  in  tossing  seeds  to 
the  little  birds,  in  saying  their  prayers,  and^ 
above  all,  in  studying  the  works  of  the  mas- 
ters and  in  rehearsing  together  some  motet, 


The  Nest  of  Nightingales 

madrigal,  villanelle,  or  other  music  of  the 
sort;  they  also  had  flowers  which  they  them- 
selves watered  and  tended.  Their  life  passed 
in  these  pleasant  and  poetical  maidenly  occu- 
pations; they  remained  in  the  chateau,  far 
from  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  yet  the  world 
busied  itself  about  them.  Neither  the  night- 
ingale nor  the  rose  can  conceal  itself;  their 
melody  and  their  perfume  always  betray 
them.  Now,  our  two  cousins  were  at  once 
nightingales  and  roses. 

There  came  dukes  and  princes  to  solicit 
their  hands  in  marriage;  the  Emperor  of 
Trebizond  and  the  Sultan  of  Egypt  sent  am- 
bassadors to  propose  an  alliance  to  Sire  de 
Maulevrier;  the  two  cousins  were  not  weary 
of  being  maidens  and  would  not  listen  to  any 
mention  of  the  subject.  Perhaps  a  secret  in- 
stinct had  informed  them  that  their  mission 
here  on  earth  was  to  remain  maidens  and  to 
sing,  and  that  they  would  lower  themselves 
by  doing  anything  else. 

They  had  come  to  that  manor  when  they 


Theophile  Gautier 


were  very  small.  The  window  of  their  bed- 
room looked  upon  the  park,  and  they  had 
been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  singing  of  the 
birds.  When  they  could  scarcely  walk,  old 
Blondiau,  the  old  lord's  minstrel,  had  placed 
their  tiny  hands  on  the  ivory  keys  of  the  vir- 
ginal; they  had  possessed  no  other  toy  and 
had  learned  to  sing  before  they  had  learned  to 
speak;  they  sang  as  others  breathed;  it  was 
natural  to  them. 

This  sort  of  education  had  had  a  peculiar 
influence  on  their  characters.  Their  melo- 
dious childhood  had  separated  them  from 
the  ordinary  boisterous  and  chattering  one. 
They  had  never  uttered  a  shriek  or  a  discord- 
ant wail;  they  wept  in  rhythm  and  wailed  in 
tune.  The  musical  sense,  developed  in  them 
at  the  expense  of  the  other  senses,  made  them 
quite  insusceptible  to  anything  that  was  not 
music.  They  lived  in  melodious  space,  and 
had  almost  no  perception  of  the  real  world 
otherwise  than  by  musical  notes.  They  un- 
derstood wonderfully  the  rustling  of  the  foli- 

t250j 


The  Nest  of  Nightingales 

age,  the  murmur  of  streams,  the  striking  of 
the  clock,  the  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  tire- 
place,  the  hum  of  the  spinning-wheel,  the 
dropping  of  the  rain  on  the  shivering  grass, 
all  varieties  of  harmony,  without  or  within; 
but  they  did  not  feel,  I  am  bound  to  say, 
great  enthusiasm  at  the  sight  of  a  sunset,  and 
they  were  as  little  capable  of  appreciating  a 
painting  as  if  their  lovely  blue  and  black  eyes 
had  been  covered  with  a  thick  film.  They 
had  the  music  sickness;  they  dreamed  of  it, 
it  deprived  them  of  their  appetite;  they  loved 
nothing  else  in  the  whole  world.  But,  yes, 
they  did  love  something  else — Valentin  and 
their  flowers;  Valentin  because  he  resembled 
the  roses,  the  roses  because  they  resembled 
Valentin.  But  that  love  was  altogether  in  the 
background.  To  be  sure,  Valentin  was  but 
thirteen  years  of  age.  Their  greatest  pleasure 
was  to  sing  at  their  window  in  the  evening 
the  music  which  they  had  composed  during 
the  day. 
The   most   celebrated    masters   came   from 


Theophile  Gautier 


long  distances  to  hear  them  and  to  contend 
with  them.  The  visitors  had  no  sooner  lis- 
tened to  one  measure  than  they  broke  their  in- 
struments and  tore  up  their  scores,  confessing 
themselves  vanquished.  In  very  truth,  the 
music  was  so  pleasant  to  the  ear  and  so  me- 
lodious, that  the  cherubim  from  heaven  came 
to  the  window  with  the  other  musicians,  and 
learned  it  by  heart  to  sing  to  the  good  Lord. 

One  evening  in  May  the  two  cousins  were 
singing  a  motet  for  two  voices;  never  was  a 
lovelier  air  more  beautifully  composed  and 
executed.  A  nightingale  in  the  park,  perched 
upon  a  rose-bush,  listened  attentively  to  them. 
When  they  had  finished,  he  flew  to  the  win- 
dow, and  said  to  them,  in  nightingale  lan- 
guage : 

"I  would  like  to  compete  in  song  with 
you." 

The  two  cousins  replied  that  they  would 
do  it  willingly,  and  that  he  might  begin. 

The  nightingale  began.  He  was  a  master 
among  nightingales.     His  little  throat  swelled, 

[252] 


The  Nest  of  Nightingales 

his  wings  fluttered,  his  whole  body  trembled ; 
he  poured  forth  roulades,  flourishes,  arpeg- 
gios, and  chromatic  scales;  he  ascended  and 
descended;  he  sang  notes  and  trills  with  dis- 
couraging purity;  one  would  have  said  that 
his  voice,  like  his  body,  had  wings.  He 
paused,  well  assured  that  he  had  won  the 
victory. 

The  two  cousins  performed  in  their  turn; 
they  surpassed  themselves.  The  song  of  the 
nightingale,  compared  with  theirs,  seemed 
like  the  chirping  of  a  sparrow. 

The  vanquished  virtuoso  made  a  last  at- 
tempt; he  sang  a  love  romanza,  then  he  exe- 
cuted a  brilliant  flourish,  which  he  crowned 
by  a  shower  of  high,  vibrating,  and  shrill 
notes,  beyond  the  range  of  any  human  voice. 

The  two  cousins,  undeterred  by  that  won- 
derful performance,  turned  the  leaves  of  their 
book  of  music,  and  answered  the  nightingale 
in  such  wise  that  Saint  Cecilia,  who  listened 
in  heaven,  turned  pale  with  jealousy  and  let 
her  viol  fall  to  earth. 


Thdophile  Gautier 


The  nightingale  tried  again  to  sing,  but  the 
contest  had  utterly  exhausted  him ;  his  breath 
failed  him,  his  feathers  drooped,  his  eyes 
closed,  despite  his  efforts;  he  was  at  the 
point  of  death. 

"You  sang  better  than  I,"  he  said  to  the 
two  cousins,  "and  my  pride,  by  making  me 
try  to  surpass  you,  has  cost  me  my  life.  I 
ask  one  favour  at  your  hands:  I  have  a  nest; 
in  that  nest  there  are  three  little  ones;  it  is  on 
the  third  eglantine  in  the  broad  avenue  beside 
the  pond;  send  some  one  to  fetch  them  to 
you,  bring  them  up  and  teach  them  to  sing  as 
you  do,  for  1  am  dying." 

Having  spoken,  the  nightingale  died.  The 
two  cousins  wept  bitterly  for  him,  for  he  had 
sung  well.  They  called  Valentin,  the  fair- 
haired  little  page,  and  told  him  where  the 
nest  was.  Valentin,  who  was  a  shrewd  little 
rascal,  readily  found  the  place;  he  put  the 
nest  in  his  breast  and  carried  it  to  the  chMeau 
without  harm.  Fleurette  and  Isabeau,  leaning 
on  the  balcony  rail,  were  awaiting  him  impa- 

[2541 


The  Nest  of  Nightingales 

tiently.  Valentin  soon  arrived,  holding  the 
nest  in  his  hands.  The  three  little  ones  had 
their  heads  over  the  edge,  with  their  beaks 
wide  open.  The  girls  were  moved  to  pity 
by  the  little  orphans,  and  fed  them  each  in 
turn.  When  they  had  grown  a  little  they 
began  their  musical  education,  as  they  had 
promised  the  vanquished  nightingale. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  tame  they 
became,  how  well  they  sang.  They  went 
fluttering  about  the  room,  and  perched  now 
upon  Isabeau's  head,  now  upon  Fleurette's 
shoulder.  They  lighted  in  front  of  the  music- 
book,  and  in  very  truth  one  would  have  said 
that  they  were  able  to  read  the  notes,  with 
such  an  intelligent  air  did  they  scan  the  white 
ones  and  the  black  ones.  They  learned  all 
Fleurette's  and  isabeau's  melodies,  and  began 
to  improvise  some  very  pretty  ones  themselves. 

The  two  cousins  lived  more  and  more  in 
solitude,  and  at  night  strains  of  supernal 
melody  were  heard  to  issue  from  their  cham- 
ber.    The  nightingales,  perfectly  taught,  took 

(255] 


Theophile  Gautier 


their  parts  in  the  concert,  and  they  sang  almost 
as  well  as  their  mistresses,  who  themselves 
had  made  great  progress. 

Their  voices  assumed  each  day  extraordi- 
nary brilliancy,  and  vibrated  in  metallic  and 
crystalline  tones  far  above  the  register  of  the 
natural  voice.  The  young  women  grew  per- 
ceptibly thin;  their  lovely  colouring  faded;  they 
became  as  pale  as  agates  and  almost  as  trans- 
parent. Sire  de  Maulevrier  tried  to  prevent 
their  singing,  but  he  could  not  prevail  upon 
them. 

As  soon  as  they  had  sung  a  measure  or 
two,  a  little  red  spot  appeared  upon  their 
cheek-bones,  and  grew  larger  and  larger  until 
they  had  finished;  then  the  spot  disappeared, 
but  a  cold  sweat  issued  from  their  skin,  and 
their  lips  trembled  as  if  they  had  a  fever. 

But  their  singing  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever;  there  was  in  it  a  something  not  of  this 
world,  and  to  one  who  heard  those  sonorous 
and  powerful  voices  issuing  from  those  two 
fragile  maidens,  it  was  not  difficult  to  foresee 

[256] 


The   Nest  of  Nightingales 

what  would  happen — that  the  music  would 
shatter  the  instrument. 

They  realised  it  themselves,  and  returned  to 
their  virginal,  which  they  had  abandoned  for 
vocal  music.  But  one  night,  the  window 
was  open,  the  birds  were  twittering  in  the 
park,  the  night  wind  sighed  harmoniously; 
there  was  so  much  music  in  the  air  that  they 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  sing  a  duet 
which  they  had  composed  the  night  before. 

It  was  the  Swan's  Song,  a  wondrous  melody 
all  drenched  with  tears,  ascending  to  the  most 
inaccessible  heights  of  the  scale,  and  rede- 
scending  the  ladder  of  notes  to  the  lowest 
round;  something  dazzling  and  incredible;  a 
deluge  of  trills,  a  fiery  rain  of  chromatic  flour- 
ishes, a  display  of  musical  fireworks  impos- 
sible to  describe;  but  meanwhile  the  little  red 
spot  grew  rapidly  larger  and  almost  covered 
their  cheeks.  The  three  nightingales  watched 
them  and  listened  to  them  with  painful  anx- 
iety; they  flapped  their  wings,  they  went  and 
came  and  could  not  remain  in  one  place.     At 

17  [257) 


Theophile  Gautier 


last  the  maidens  reached  the  last  bar  of  the 
duet;  their  voices  assumed  a  sonority  so  ex- 
traordinary that  it  was  easy  to  understand 
that  they  who  sang  were  no  longer  living 
creatures.  The  nightingales  had  taken  flight. 
The  two  cousins  were  dead;  their  souls  had 
departed  with  the  last  note.  The  nightin- 
gales had  ascended  straight  to  heaven  to 
carry  that  last  song  to  the  good  Lord,  who 
kept  them  all  in  His  Paradise,  to  perform  the 
music  of  the  two  cousins  for  Him. 

Later,   with   these  three   nightingales,   the 
good  Lord  made  the  souls  of  Palestrina,  of 

Cimarosa,  and  of  Gluck. 
1833. 


[«8] 


Poems 


1359  J 


Poems 

T  OVE  at  Sea  is  published  in  this  volume 
by  the  permission  of  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne;  Ars  tutrix,  by  permission  of 
Austin  Dobson,  and  by  the  authorisation  of 
Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  the  holders  of  the  Amer- 
ican copyright.  The  Cloud,  The  Portal,  and 
The  Chimera  are  here  used  by  special  ar- 
rangement with  George  D.  Sproul  (copy- 
right, 1903),  and  are  taken  from  his  edition  in 
English  of  the  works  of  Theophile  Gautier, 
edited  by  F.-C.  de  Sumichrast.  The  Yellow 
Stains  is  here  used  by  permission  of  Bren- 
tano's,  its  publishers,  and  is  taken  from  their 
volume,  One  of  Cleopatra's  Nights,  translated 
from  the  French  of  Gautier  by  Lafcadio  Hearn. 
The  Poet  and  the  Crowd,  The  Caravan,  The 
Marsh,  and  Earth  and  the  Seasons  were 
especially  translated  for  this  volume,  and 
are  covered  by  the  general  copyright.  The 
names  appended  to  the  poems  are  tho§e  of  the 
translators. 


Love  at  Sea 


LOVE   AT   SEA 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 
Love,  shall  we  start  or  stay, 

Or  sail  or  row  ? 
There  s  many  a  wind  and  way, 
And  never  a  May  but  May; 
We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Our  land-wind  is  the  breath 
Of  sorrows  kiss'd  to  death 

And  joys  that  were; 
Our  ballast  is  a  rose; 
Our  way  lies  where  God  knows 

And  love  knows  where. 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day- 

Our  seamen  are  fledged  Loves, 
Our  masts  are  bills  of  doves, 

[263] 


Theophile  Gautier 


Our  decks  fine  gold; 
Our  ropes  are  dead  maids'  hair, 
Our  stores  are  love-shafts  fair 

And  manifold. 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day — 

Where  shall  we  land  you,  sweet  ? 
On  fields  of  strange  men's  feet, 

Or  fields  near  home  ? 
Or  where  the  fire-flowers  blow, 
Or  where  the  flowers  of  snow 

Or  flowers  of  foam  ? 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day — 

Land  me,  she  says,  where  love 
Shows  but  one  shaft,  one  dove, 

One  heart,  one  hand, — 
A  shore  like  that,  my  dear, 
Lies  where  no  man  will  steer, 

No  maiden  land. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


[264] 


Ars  Victrix 


ARS  VICTRIX 

Yes;  when  the  ways  oppose  — 
When  the  hard  means  rebel, 

Fairer  the  work  out-grows, — 
More  potent  far  the  spell. 

O  Poet,  then,  forbear 

The  loosely-sandalled  verse, 
Choose  rather  thou  to  wear 

The  buskin — strait  and  terse; 

Leave  to  the  tiro's  hand 
The  limp  and  shapeless  style; 

See  that  thy  form  demand 
The  labour  of  the  file. 

Sculptor,  do  thou  discard 
The  yielding  clay, —  consign 

To  Paros  marble  hard 
The  beauty  of  thy  line; — 


Thdophile  Gautier 


Model  thy  Satyr's  face 
For  bronze  of  Syracuse; 

In  the  veined  agate  trace 
The  profile  of  thy  Muse. 

Painter,  that  still  must  mix 
But  transient  tints  anew, 

Thou  in  the  furnace  fix 
The  firm  enamel's  hue; 

Let  the  smooth  tile  receive 
Thy  dove-drawn  Erycine; 

Thy  Sirens  blue  at  eve 
Coiled  in  a  wash  of  wine. 

All  passes.     Art  alone 

Enduring  stays  to  us; 
The  Bust  outlasts  the  throne, — 

The  Coin,  Tiberius; 

Even  the  gods  must  go; 

Only  the  lofty  Rhyme 
Not  countless  years  o'erthrow,- 

Not  long  array  of  time. 

[266] 


Ars  Victrix 


Paint,  chisel,  then,  or  write; 

But,  that  the  work  surpass, 
With  the  hard  fashion  fight, — 

With  the  resisting  mass. 

Austin  Dobson. 


IW7] 


Theophile  Gautier 


THE  CLOUD 

Lightly  in  the  azure  air 
Soars  a  cloud,  emerging  free 
Like  a  virgin  from  the  fair 
Blue  sea; 

Or  an  Aphrodite  sweet, 
Floating  upright  and  impearled 
In  the  shell,  about  its  feet 
Foam-curled. 

Undulating  overhead, 
How  its  changing  body  glows! 
On  its  shoulder  dawn  hath  spread 
A  rose. 

Marble,  snow,  blend  amorously 
In  that  form  by  sunlight  kissed  — 
Slumbering  Antiope 
Of  mist! 

[268) 


The  Cloud 


Sailing  unto  distant  goal, 
Over  Alps  and  Apennines, 
Sister  of  the  woman-soul, 
It  shines; 

Till  my  heart  flies  forth  at  last 
On  the  wings  of  passion  warm, 
And  1  yearn  to  gather  fast 
Its  form. 

Reason  saith:  "  Mere  vapour  thing! 
Bursting  bubble!     Yet,  we  deem, 
Holds  this  wind-distorted  ring 
Our  dream." 

Faith  declareth:  "Beauty  seen, 
Like  a  cloud,  is  but  a  thought. 
Or  a  breath,  that,  having  been. 
Is  naught. 

"Have  thy  vision.     Build  it  proud. 

Let  thy  soul  be  full  thereof. 

Love  a  woman  —  love  a  cloud  — 

But  love!" 

Agues  Lee. 

[260] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


THE   POET  AND  THE  CROWD 

The    plain    reproached   the    idle    mountain: 
"Naught 
Can  ever  grow  on  thy  wind-beaten  brow!  " 
The  poet,  bending  o'er  his  lyre  in  thought, 
Heard  the  Crowd  say :  "  Dreamer,  what  use 
art  thou  ?  " 


In  anger  spoke  the  mountain  to  the  plain: 
"T  is  I  that  make  thy  harvests  sprout  and 
grow! 

I  cool  the  South's  hot  breath,  I  send  the  rain, 
I  stay  the  clouds  in  Heaven,  or  bid  them  go. 

"I  mould  the  avalanches  in  my  hand, 
I  melt  in  crucibles  the  crystal  gleams 

Of  glaciers;  from  my  breasts  o'er  all  the  land 
I  pour  abroad  the  bright  life-giving  streams." 

[270] 


The  Poet  and  the  Crowd 

Even  so  the  poet  to  the  Crowd  replied: 
"Suffer  me  thus  to  rest  my  pallid  brow. 

Hath  not  my  very  soul  poured  from  my  side 

For  fountain   where  the  race  are  drinking 

now?" 

Curtis  Hidden  Page. 


|0n| 


Theophile  Gautier 


THE   PORTAL 

O  ARTIST,  man,  whoever  thou  mayst  be, 
Marvel  not  through  so  sad  a  gate  to  see 
This  new-born  volume  fatally  unfold! 

Alas!  all  monument  built  high,  complete, 
Before  it  raise  its  head  must  plunge  its  feet: 
The  skyward  tower  hath  felt  the  secret  mould. 

Below,  the  night-bird  and  the  tomb.     Above, 
Rose  of  the  sun  and  whiteness  of  the  dove, 
Carols  and  bells  on  every  arch  of  gold. 

Above,  the  minarets,  the  window's  charm. 
Where  birdlings  fret  their  wings  in  sunbeams 

warm, — 
The  carved  escutcheons  borne  by  angels  tall. 

Acanthus  leaves  and  lotus  flowers  of  stone, 
Like  lilies  in  Elysian  gardens  blown. 
Below,  rude  shaft  and  vault  elliptical, 

1872] 


The  Portal 


Knights  rigid  on  their  biers  the  deathlong  days, 
With  folded  hands  and  helpless  upward  gaze, 
And  from  the  cavern  roofs  the  drips  that  fall. 

My  book  is  builded  thus,  with  narrow  line 
Of  stratum  stone,  embossed  with  many  a  sign. 
And  carven  words  the  creeping  mosses  fill. 

God  grant  that,  passing  o'er  this  humble  place, 
The  pilgrim  foot  shall  never  quite  efface 
Its  poor  inscription  and  its  work's  unskill. 

My  ghostly  dead!  That  ye  might  walk  the 
shades, 

With  patience  have  1  wrought  your  colon- 
nades, 

And  in  my  Campo  Santo  couched  you  still. 

There  watcheth  at  your  side  an  angel  true. 
To  make  a  curtain  of  his  wing  for  you, 
Pillow  of  marble,  cloth  of  leaden  fold. 

i8  [273) 


Theophile  Gautier 


Yea,  Righteousness  and  Peace  have  kissed  in 

stone, 
Mercy  and  Truth  are  met  together,  one 
In  flowing  raiment,  fair  and  aureoled. 

A  sculptured  greyhound  lieth  at  your  heels. 

A  beauteous  child  eternally  appeals 

From  out  the  shadow  of  the  tomb  enscrolled. 

Upon  the  pillars  arabesques  arise 

Of  blooming  vines  that  flutter  circlewise, 

As  o'er  espalier  twines  the  dappled  green. 

And  the  dark  tomb  appears  a  gladsome  thing, 
With  all  this  bright,  perpetual  flowering, 
And  looks  on  sorrow  with  a  smile  serene. 

Death  plays  coquette.     Only  her  forehead  fair 
Hath  pallor  still  beneath  her  ebon  hair. 
She  seeks  to  charm,  and  hath  a  royal  mien. 

A  burst  of  colour  fires  the  blazons  clear; 

The  alabaster  melts  to  whitest  tear; 

Less  hard  uplooms  the  bronze-built  sepulture. 

[274] 


The  Portal 


The  consorts  lie  upon  their  beds  of  state; 
Their    pillows    seem    to    soften    with   their 

weight, 
Their  love  to  flower  within  the  marble  pure; 

Till  with  her  garlands,  traceries,  and  festoons, 
Trefoils,    pendentives,    pillars   wrought   with 

runes. 
Fantasia  at  her  will  may  laugh  and  lure. 

The  tomb  becomes  a  thing  of  bright  parade, 
A  throne,  a  holy  altar,  an  estrade, 
For  it  is  wish  fulfilled  of  sight  at  last. 

But  if,  by  some  capricious  thought  impelled, 
Your    hand    should     peradventure    wonder- 
spelled 
Upraise  a  cover  rich  with  carven  cast, 

Under  the  heavy  vault  and  architrave. 

You  still  would  find  within  the  mouldering 

grave 
The  stiff  and  white  cadaver  sheeted  fast, 

[2751 


Theophile  Gautier 


With  never  glimmer  of  a  ray  without, 
Nor  inner  light  to  flood  the  bier  about, 
As  in  the  pictures  of  the  Holy  Tomb. 

Between  her  thin  arms,  like  a  tender  spouse 
Death  binds  her  chosen  to  her,  nor  shall  rouse 
Them  ever,  nor  let  go  her  grasp  of  doom. 

Scarce  at  the  Judgment  Hour  their  heads  shall 

stir, 
When  at  the  trumpet  blast  the  stars  shall  err, 
And  a  strange  wind   blow  out  the  torch's 

plume. 

An  angel  shall  discern  them  in  his  quest, 

Upon  the  ruins  of  the  world  at  rest, 

For  they  shall  sleep  and  sleep,  the  cycles  long. 

And  if  the  Christ  Himself  should  raise  His 

hand, 
As  unto  Lazarus,  to  bid  them  stand. 
The  grave  would  loosen  not  its  fetter  strong. 

[276] 


The  Portal 


A  tomb  enwrought  with  sculpture  is  my  verse, 
That  hides  a  body  under  leaf  and  thyrse, 
And  breaks  its  weeping  heart  to  seem  a  song. 

My  poems  are  graves  of  mine  illusions  dead, 
Where  many  a  wild  and  luckless  form  1  bed 
When  a  ship  founders  in  the  tempest's  peal! — 

Abortive  dream,  ambition's  eagerness. 
All  secret  ardours,  passions  issueless, — 
All  bitter,  intimate  things  that  life  can  feel. 

Each  day  the  sea  devours  a  goodly  ship. 
Close  to  the  shore  there  hides  a  reef  to  rip 
Her  copper-sheathed  tlanks  and  iron  keel. 

How  many  have  I  launched,  with  what  fair 

names! 
With    silken    streamers     coloured    like     the 

llames, — 
Mever  to  cleave  the  harbour  sun's  reflex! 

Ah,  what  dear  passengers,  what  faces  sweet, — 
Desires  with  heaving  breasts,  hopes,  visions 

fleet,— 
O  my  heart's  children  swarming  to  the  decks! 

[•J77] 


Th^ophile  Gautier 


The  sea  hath  shrouded  them  with  glaucous 

taint: 
The  red  of  rose,  the  alabaster  faint, 
The  star,  the  flower,  lie  floating  in  the  wrecks. 

Fearful  and  masterful,  the  hurtling  tide 
Dashes  from  drifting  spar  to  dolphin  side 
My  stark  and  drowned  dreams  that  sink  and 
part. 

For  these  inglorious  travellers  distant-bound, 
Pale  seekers  of  Americas  unfound, 
Curve  into  hollow  caverns,  O  mine  Art! 

Then  rise  in  towers  and  cupolas  of  fire, 
Press  upward  in  a  bold  cathedral  spire, 
And  fix  your  peak  in  heaven's  open  heartl 

Ye  little  birds  of  love  and  fantasy, 
Sonnets,  white  birds  of  heaven's  poetry, 
Light  softly  on  my  gables  argentine. 

And  swallows,  April  messengers  that  pass, 
Beat  not  your  tender  wings  against  the  glass, — 
My  marbles  have  their  rifts  where  you  may  win. 

[278] 


The  Portal 


My  virgin  saint  shall  hide  you  in  her  robe, 
For  you  the  emperor  shall  let  fall  his  globe, 
The  lotus  heart  spread  wide  to  nest  you  in. 

I  've    reared    mine    azure    arch,    mine   organ 

grand, 
1  've   carved    my  pillars,    placed    with   loving 

hand 
In  each  recess  a  saint  of  martyrdom: 

1  "ve  begged  a  chalice  of  Elygius, — spice 
And  frankincense  for  holy  sacrifice 
Of  Kaspar,  and  have  drawn  the  sweet  there- 
from. 

The    people    kneel   at   prayer.      The    radiant 

priest 
In  orphreyed  chasuble  prepares  the  Feast. 
The  church  is  builded,  Lord!     Then  wilt  Thou 

come? 

Agnes  Lee. 


(OTj 


Theophile  Gautier 


THE  CARAVAN 

The  human  caravan  day  after  day 
Along  the  trail  of  unreturning  years, 
Parched  with  the  heat,  and  drinking  sweat 
and  tears, 

Across  the  world's  Sahara  drags  its  way. 

Great  lions  roar,  and  muttering  storms  dismay. 
Horizons  flee,  no  spire  nor  tower  appears. 
Nor  shade,  save  when  the  vulture's  shadow 
nears, 

Crossing  the  sky  to  seek  his  filthy  prey. 

Still  onward  and  still  onward,  till  at  last 
We  see  a  place  of  greenness  cool  and  blest. 
Strewn   with   white   stones,   where   cy- 
press-shade lies  deep. 

Oasis-like,  along  Time's  desert  waste, 

God  sets  His  burial-grounds,  to  give  you  rest. 

Ye  way-spent  travellers,  lie  down,  and 

sleep. 

Curtis  Hidden  Page. 

[280] 


The   Marsh 


THE  MARSH 

It  is  a  marsh,  whose  sleepy  water 
Lies  stagnant,  covered  with  a  mantle 
Of  lily-pads  and  rushes; 
And  at  the  least  noise,  the  croaking  frogs 
Dive  under  their  light-green  cover. 
To  it  flies  the  black  and  gray  snipe 
When,  on  a  frosty  November  morning, 
The  bleak  north  wind  blows; 

Often,  from  the  dark  clouds  above, 

Plover,  lapwing,  curlew,  and  crane 

Alight  there,  weary  from  a  long  flight 

Under  the  creeping  duck-weed 

The  wild  ducks  dip 

Their  sapphire  necks  glazed  with  gold; 

At  dawn  the  teal  is  seen  bathing, 

And  when  twilight  reigns, 

it  settles  between  two  rushes  and  sleeps. 

The  stork  that  snaps  his  bill, 

With  eye  turned  towards  the  opaque  sky, 

[•281] 


Theophile  Gautier 


Awaits  there  the  time  of  departure; 

And  the  heron  with  slender  legs, 

Smoothing  the  feathers  of  its  wings, 

Drags  out  there  its  lonely  life. 

Friend,  when  the  autumnal  mist 

Spreads  its  uniform  mantle 

Over  the  gloomy  face  of  heaven, 

When  the  whole  town  is  slumbering 

And  when  the  day  is  just  breaking 

On  the  silent  horizon, 

You  whose  shot  always  carries 

Sure  death  to  the  swallow. 

You  who,  at  thirty  paces, 

Ne'er  missed  the  fleet-footed  hare, 

Friend,  indefatigable  hunter, 

Not  to  be  deterred  by  a  long  journey, 

With  Rasko,  your  dog  that  follows. 

Bounding  behind  through  the  high  grass, 

With  your  good  bronzed  gun, 

Your  hunting-jacket,  and  your  whole  outfit. 

Go  and  hide  there  near  the  bank. 

Behind  the  trunk  of  a  broken  tree. 

Your  sport  will  be  deadly; 

[282] 


The  Marsh 


Through  the  meshes  of  your  game-bag 

Many  a  bird's  legs  will  pass. 

And  you  will  return  early, 

Reaching  home  at  dusk 

With  joyful  heart  and  kindled  eyes. 

Robert  Louis  Sanderson. 


(888J 


Theophile  Gautier 


EARTH  AND  THE  SEASONS 

The  rose-pink  Earth  in  April  wears 

The  flush  of  youth; 
A  maiden  still,  she  hardly  dares 

To  meet  Spring's  troth! 

When  June  comes,  paler  grows  her  brow 

In  passion's  pain. 
She  hides  with  sunburnt  Summer  now 

Among  the  grain. 

In  August's  mad  bacchante  mood 

She  bares  her  breast 
To  Autumn,  rolling  in  the  blood 

Of  grapes  new-pressed. 

And  in  December,  weazened,  old, 

Frost-powdered,  white. 
She  dreams  beside  old  Winter  cold, 

Who  sleeps  all  night. 

Curtis  Hidden  Page. 

f284] 


The  Yellow  Stains 


THE  YELLOW  STAINS 

With  elbow  buried  in  the  downy  pillow 

I  "ve  lain  and  read, 
All   through   the   night,   a  volume   strangely 
written 

in  tongues  long  dead. 

For  at  my  bedside  lie  no  dainty  slippers; 

And,  save  my  own, 
Under  the  paling  lamp  I  hear  no  breathing:— 

1  am  alone! 

But  there  are  yellow  bruises  on  my  body 

And  violet  stains; 
Though   no   white   vampire   came  with  lips 
blood-crimsoned 

To  suck  my  veins  I 

Now  I  bethink  me  of  a  sweet,  weird  story 

That  in  the  dark 
Our  dead  loves  thus  with  seal  of  chilly  kisses 
Our  bodies  mark. 

[285] 


Theophile  Gautier 


Gliding  beneath  the  coverings  of  our  couches 

They  share  our  rest, 
And  with  their  dead  lips  sign  their  loving 
visit 

On  arm  and  breast. 

Darksome  and  cold  the  bed  where  now  she 
slumbers, 

I  loved  in  vain. 
With  sweet,  soft  eyelids  closed,  to  be  reopened 

Never  again. 

Dead  sweetheart,  can  it  be  that  thou  hast  lifted 

With  thy  frail  hand 
Thy  coffin-lid,  to  come  to  me  again 

From  Shadowland  ? 

Thou  who,  one  joyous  night,  didst,  pale  and 
speechless. 

Pass  from  us  all, 
Dropping  thy  silken  mask  and  gift  of  flowers 

Amidst  the  ball  ? 

(286) 


The  Yellow  Stains 


Oh,  fondest  of  my  loves,  from  that  far  heaven 

Where  thou  must  be, 
Hast  thou  returned  to  pay  the  debt  of  kisses 

Thou  owest  me  ? 

Lafcadio  Hearn. 


l«ri 


Theophile  Gautier 


THE  CHIMERA 

A  YOUNG  chimera  at  my  goblet's  brim 
Gave  sweetest  kiss  amid  the  orgy's  spell. 

Emerald  her  eyes,  and  to  her  haunches  slim 
The  golden  torrent  of  her  tresses  fell. 

Her  shoulders  fluttering  pinions  did  bedeck. 

I  sprang  upon  her  back,  for  travel  fain. 
And  toward  me  bending  firm  her  lovely  neck, 

I  plunged  my  tightening  fingers  in  her  mane. 

She  struggled  madly;  but  I  clung,  austere; 

With  iron  knees  1  crushed  her  flanks  to  me. 
Then  softly  came  her  voice,  and  silver-clear: 

"  Whither,  then,  master,  shall  I  carry  thee  ?" 

To  farthest  edge  of  all  eternal  things. 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  bounds  of  space; 

But  weary  ere  the  end  shall  be  thy  wings, — 
For  I  would  see  my  vision  face  to  face, 

Agnes  Lee. 

[888] 


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